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NOW,  WHAT   IS   THERE   FOR   ME   TO   DO?" 


THE 

OLYMPIAN 

A   STORY   OF  THE   CITY 


BY 

JAMES   OPPENHEIM 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  NINE-TENTHS" 


COPYRIGHT.    1912.    BY    HARPER   ft    BROTHERS 

PRINTED  IN    THE  UNITED   STATES  OF  AMERICA 

PUBLISHED   SEPTEMBER.    1912 


G  M 


TO 
L.  S.  G.  AND  A.   H.  G. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  ADVENTURE i 

II.  THE  SEA-CITY 13 

III.  THE  OUTSIDER 24 

IV.  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  DARK 35 

V.  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  LIGHT 43 

VI.  BESS:    A  SHOP-GIRL       54 

VII.  AN  EVENING  WITH  LADIES 68 

VIII.  THE  BRAIN-BROKERS 75 

IX.  THE  YOUNG  NEW-YORKER 84 

X.  FRANCES 94 

XI.  CLERKS 104 

XII.  ALTERCATION  WITH  A  LADY 117 

XIII.  THE  SLOW  WAY 129 

XIV.  TROUBLE  BEGINS 144 

XV.  TROUBLE  CONTINUES .156 

XVI.  THE  FAVORITE 171 

XVII.  THE  WOMAN 179 

XVIII.  THE  RIDE 192 

XIX.  THE  RETURN 209 

XX.  SUCCESS 213 

XXI.  THE  RIVAL 224 

XXII.  QUICKSANDS 237 

XXIII.  PENDLETON       246 

XXIV.  THE  SKYROCKET 259 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXV.  THE  CLIFFS 269 

XXVI.  A  FAIRY  TALE 286 

XXVII.  THREE  HARD  HEADS 299 

XXVIII.  FAME 313 

XXIX.  KIRBY  YES-AND-NO 322 

XXX.  THE  LAKE    ^,,    .    v 336 

XXXI.  THE  MACHINE  .' >.>Xi 349 

XXXII.  KATIE 361 

XXXIII.  WIPING  UP  THE  FLOOR 372 

XXXIV.  A  NEW  LIFE-WORK    .-.-.- 383 

XXXV.  THE  ERRAND 397 

XXXVI.  THE  SKYSCRAPER 408 


THE    OLYMPIAN 


THE   OLYMPIAN 


ADVENTURE 

FINALLY  at  ten-thirty  of  the  cool  October  night 
Kirby  and  the  New  York  traveling  salesman  were 
left  alone  in  the  smoking-compartment.  Kirby  was  not 
pleased  at  this;  it  seemed  to  necessitate  either  talking  or 
going  to  bed,  whereas,  all  he  wanted  was  to  sink  back  in 
the  leather  cushions  and  let  the  rhythm  of  the  car-wheels 
blend  with  the  rhythm  of  Mrs.  Hadden's  voice  as  he  had 
heard  it  the  day  before — the  strange  and  thrilling  woman 
voice  speaking  to  the  man  in  him : 

"  Kirby,  you  are  going  to  be  a  great  man.  I  expect  you 
to  rise  to  the  top — capture  the  city.  And  I  give  you  ten 
years.  Even  then  you'll  only  be  thirty-four." 

Mirrors  over  the  nickeled  wash-basins  threw  back  myriad 
electric  lights,  and  the  air  was  blue  with  tobacco-smoke; 
in  the  smoke  he  wanted  to  visualize  the  liquid  blue  eyes, 
the  full  lips,  the  light  golden  hair  of  this  woman  who  had 
awakened  him,  who  had  chained  on  his  armor  and  set 
lance  in  his  hand  to  send  him  forth  on  youth's  great 
modern  adventure,  the  City.  Her  voice  on  summer 
nights  was  remembered;  the  pressure  of  her  hand  had 
gone  into  his  brain  and  made  him  powerful.  And  the  fact 
that  she  was  Professor  Hadden's  wife  and  all  of  twenty- 
eight  years  old  made  no  difference:  she  was  woman — and 
he  was  twenty-four. 

i 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

However,  the  salesman  had  that  essential  humanness 
that  finds  it  intolerable  to  be  alone  with  another  and  not 
speak. 

"Say,"  he  exclaimed,  pressing  his  nose  against  the  dark 
mirror-like  window,  "don't  miss  this — quick." 

Kirby,  flushed  with  vexation,  leaned  over  the  perfumed 
fellow,  and  looked.  A  vision  shone  and  passed,  swal 
lowed  in  night;  the  sublime  spectacle  of  window-lit 
mills  at  the  riverside  girdling  with  darkness  the  fierce 
flaming  of  the  Bessemer  converter,  whose  several  swelling 
tongues  of  fire  licked  at  the  flaring  clouds  and  crumbled 
in  showers  of  golden  snow.  Against  that  burning  a  lone 
some  one-armed  telegraph-post  was  silhouetted,  a  voice 
in  the  darkness,  passing.  Then  heaven  and  earth  grew 
black  again;  and  Kirby  saw  merely  himself  and  the  sales 
man  gazing  back  from  the  night. 

"You  know  what  mills  those  are?" 

"No,"  murmured  Kirby. 

"Steel — steel,  man!" 

Kirby  felt  a  wave  of  excitement  pass  over  him. 

"Not  the  American  Steel  Company?" 

"The  same — sure!" 

"You  mean  Jordan  Watts's  mills — those?" 

"Goodness,  they're  all  his,  except  the  piker  inde 
pendents." 

It  was  a  dramatic  moment  for  Kirby,  expected  yet  un- 
looked  for.  He  had  known,  of  course,  that  the  train 
would  pass  the  mills;  had  he  been  more  alert  he  should 
have  watched  after  leaving  Pittsburgh.  Now  he  was 
shocked  out  of  his  reverie,  and  sat  back  thrilling.  For 
in  his  pocket  he  carried  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hadden  ad 
dressed  to  the  great  captain  of  industry,  Jordan  Watts. 
Every  phrase  in  it  came  clear: 

"You  may  remember  me;  at  least  your  daughter  Mary 
will.  For  she  and  I  worked  together  at  Halsey  Street 
Settlement,  and  you  gave  me  valuable  advice  concerning 
boys'  clubs.  But  that  seems  long  ago.  Since  then  I 


ADVENTURE 

have  married  Professor  Hadden,  of  Trent  Academy,  Trent, 
Iowa.  ...  I  am  writing  this  to  introduce  to  you  Kirby 
Trask,  a  young  man  of  twenty-four,  the  most  promising 
young  man  in  this  Middle  Western  town.  Indeed,  he  is 
most  remarkable!"  Then  followed  glowing  praise  that 
made  Kirby 's  cheeks  burn  when  he  thought  of  it;  and 
then,  finally:  "He  will  be  quite  alone  in  the  city  and  must 
make  his  own  way.  Therefore  I  am  taking  the  great 
liberty  of  asking  Mr.  Trask  to  send  this  letter  to  you  with 
his  address,  for  I  know  that  you  will  understand  his  difficult 
undertaking.  Most  faithfully,  JANICE  WOODS  HADDEN." 

It  was  an  admirably  tactful  letter;  not  a  request  or 
direct  suggestion  in  it,  merely  a  hint  of  possibilities.  In 
fact,  Mrs.  Hadden  cleverly  put  the  responsibility  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  steel  magnate. 

The  salesman  was  still  talking. 

"Wonderful,  ain't  it,  how  those  fellows  rose  to  the  top: 
messenger-boy  to  millionaire."  He  chuckled,  and  blew 
out  smoke.  "But  them  days  are  over.  It  takes  pull 
now — pull!  All  the  push  in  the  world  won't  help  a  fellow. ' ' 

That  was  it.  Kirby  nodded  assent.  But  what  if  he, 
lucky  mortal,  had  this  "pull"  because  the  woman  he  wor 
shiped  was  fond  of  him?  Those  mills  might  yet  flame 
for  him,  a  night  advertisement  in  the  skies  of  America, 
and  travelers  would  say: 

"Sure!    Kirby  Trask — he  owns  'em  all." 

Kirby  felt  a  little  drunk;  he  pulsed  all  over  with  the 
young  man's  dream,  and  he  ached  for  the  morrow. 
Four  hundred  miles  down  the  shining  tracks  stood  New 
York  with  its  aspiring  millions:  what  if  he,  a  fresh- 
blooded  Westerner,  attacked  the  metropolis  and  took  it 
by  storm?  He  had  exactly  a  hundred  dollars  in  his 
pocket;  but  he  had  youth,  untried  power,  soaring  ambi 
tion — and  he  had  been  sent  out  by  a  woman.  No  me 
dieval  youth  lusted  for  battle  more  than  he  did,  and  he 
believed  that  the  day  of  great  deeds  had  not  yet  passed 
over.  Mrs.  Hadden  knew — 
2  3 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"I  give  you  ten  years.  Kirby,  you  are  going  to  be  a 
great  man." 

The  steady  talk  of  the  salesman  broke  in  again: 

"Now,  just  take  fellows  like  you  and  me.  If  we  rise  to 
five  thousand  a  year  at  forty  we're  lucky.  Ain't  it  so? 
Say,  it's  your  first  time  in  New  York,  ain't  it?" 

Kirby  paled.  Was  it  written  all  over  him  that  he  was  a 
provincial?  What  was  it?  Perhaps  his  clothes,  his  best, 
most  uncomfortable  and  looking  stiffly  new.  Perhaps  his 
shyness  and  diffidence  that  made  him  stammer  and 
stumble.  Perhaps  the  atmosphere  of  rawness  and  failure 
that  enveloped  him.  For  this  man  beside  him  was  dif 
ferent;  there  was  about  him  an  air  of  success,  a  suavity 
and  ease  of  manner,  a  flow  of  talk,  a  well-fed,  well-kept 
exterior,  all  of  which  seemed  to  belong  distinctly  to  a  city 
of  theaters,  restaurants,  and  hotels.  Yes,  and  a  city  of 
many  women  easily  conquered. 

Kirby  felt  a  choke  in  his  throat. 

"Yes,"  he  began,  and  found  to  his  horror  that  a  pro 
found  emotion  welled  through  his  voice,  something  un 
canny  contrasted  with  the  glib  ease  of  the  traveling  man. 
"Yes — I'm  just  starting  out — " 

"Middle  West?"  The  other  eyed  him  mercilessly  and, 
as  Kirby  thought,  with  amused  scorn. 

"Yes,  Iowa." 

The  traveler  laughed  easily. 

"Lord,  New  York  has  every  kind  except  New-Yorkers. 
No  one  was  ever  born  in  that  little  old  town.  But  all 
the  kids  of  creation  come  there — think  they're  goin'  to  set 
the  Hudson  on  fire.  Like  as  not,"  he  chuckled,  "they'll 
be  glad  to  clerk  at  ten  per.  New  York's  the  frozen 
beauty,  all  right,  and  has  the  cold-shoulder  game  down 
to  a  science." 

Kirby  tried  hard  to  maintain  his  twenty-four  years, 
but  every  word  made  him  more  of  a  boy.  Tears  of  shame 
sprang  to  his  eyes;  he  felt  that  speech  was  impossible; 
he  had  a  twinge  of  homesickness;  and,  above  all,  he 

4 


ADVENTURE 

wanted  to  get  away  and  hide  himself.  His  dreams  seemed 
to  come  crashing  down  about  him,  and  he  knew  then 
that  he  was  a  lonely  lad  going  to  a  place  of  strangers. 
And  home,  with  every  turn  of  the  wheels,  was  fading  in 
the  remote  West. 

He  arose,  almost  falling  with  the  motion  of  the  car. 
His  voice  was  trembling. 

"It's  late — guess  I'll  turn  in." 

The  mirror  gave  him  a  flash  of  himself  —  a  thin, 
middle-sized  young  man  with  a  stocky  head;  .  .  . 
the  heavy  hair  was  black,  the  lips  sharp,  the  chin 
strong,  and  the  eyes  were  a  powerful  gray.  It  seemed 
absurd  that  that  imaged  youth,  that  five-feet-nine  of 
human  flesh,  should  deem  himself  a  coming  master  of 
America.  Well,  he  didn't.  He  bolted  out  of  the  door. 

And  coming  out  he  stepped  into  the  narrow  precincts 
of  that  modern  mystery,  the  "sleeper."  For  the  green 
curtains  were  drawn  over  the  two  layers  of  berths,  and 
he  passed  through  the  hush  of  sleep,  the  consciousness 
of  stretched  and  sleeping  forms  on  either  side.  Here 
an  arm  projected  through  the  curtain-slit,  hanging  idly; 
up  on  the  racks  were  hats,  on  the  floor  were  shoes,  ready 
to  meet  half-way  in  the  morning  on  a  human  being,  but 
now  oddly  far  apart;  a  snoring  came  from  the  distance, 
and  the  weird,  smothered  speech  of  some  dreamer,  babbling 
from  subliminal  depths;  and  withal,  the  car  swayed,  the 
wheels  thumped,  bearing  the  sleeping  and  the  waking 
through  the  perils  "of  dark  space.  Kirby  was  over 
whelmed  by  the  approach  of  the  negro  porter,  who  stepped 
like  the  master  of  these  mysteries,  the  wand-waving  genie 
of  this  passing  realm. 

"Good  night,  suh,"  he  whispered  under  the  lowered  gas 
light.  "Pants  pressed,  suh?" 

Kirby  was  miserable.  He  didn't  want  his  trousers 
pressed,  of  course;  but  what  would  the  porter  think  of 
him?  He  spoke  tragically. 

"All  right — yes — press  'em." 

5 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Above  all  things  he  must  show  his  American  equality, 
which  meant  doing  what  proper  and  prosperous  people 
did.  And  not  knowing  the  formula,  he  had  to  follow  the 
porter's  lead. 

Kirby  had  a  lower  berth.  He  doubled  up  to  get  in; 
then  he  felt  blindly  and  unavailingly  for  the  push-button 
that  releases  an  electric  light,  and  in  his  misery  did  not 
dare  call  the  formidable  porter.  Instead,  he  undressed 
in  a  darkness  occasionally  flash-lit  with  some  passing  lamp, 
stuffing  his  clothes  in  a  corner  and  fearfully  secreting  his 
money  under  his  pillow. 

Now,  under  soft  covers,  plunging  head  first  through 
space,  he  felt  crudely  alone.  He  was  nested  in  peril,  the 
next  swing  of  a  curve  might  shoot  the  car  over  an  em 
bankment  or  bring  a  telescoping  crash.  Momently  he 
might  be  utterly  annihilated  or  caught  in  burning  wreck 
age.  Or  a  hand  might  search  under  his  pillow  for  his 
fortune.  Was  that  keen-eyed  salesman  reliable?  Why 
was  he  staying  up?  The  young  man  felt  penned  in  a  dan 
gerous  kennel,  where  even  sitting  up  straight  bumped  his 
head. 

He  was  tired,  however,  and  the  wheel-rhythm  was 
soothing.  Strangely,  then,  he  felt  the  full  miracle  of 
railroading:  the  red-hearted  seventy-ton  engine  panting 
on  ahead,  releasing  its  hoarse  whistle  at  bridge  and  cross 
ing  and  curve,  and  now  and  then  beating  its  melancholy 
bell;  and  he,  softly  on  his  back  under  covers,  borne 
wingedly  over  a  third  of  a  continent.  The  woodwork 
creaked,  the  wheels  sang  their  clanking  monotone,  and 
right  under  his  ear  he  could  hear  space  flow.  He  felt 
then  as  if  he  were  a  soul  going  all  alone  on  its  journey 
through  the  infinite,  passing  from  mystery  to  mystery. 

For  a  long  time,  through  a  night  of  strange  romance,  he 
merely  dozed,  woke,  and  dozed  again.  Once  the  grinding 
of  brakes  aroused  him,  and  he  pulled  up  the  shade;  and, 
gazing  out,  he  saw  cobblestones  beneath  a  blue-rayed  arc- 
lamp,  and  on  the  corner  a  saloon  and  three  men  standing 

6 


ADVENTURE 

before  it.  It  seemed  to  him  that  life  was  very  fantastic — 
those  three  awake  out  there  and  he  gliding  past  on  a  bed, 
all  ignorant  of  the  other's  destinies.  Again  he  awoke  to 
gaze  out  on  flowing  blankness,  and  then  sharply  a  lonely 
lighted  shanty  clinging  to  the  hillside — something  warm 
and  human  stowed  away  in  the  night.  And  then  again 
he  saw  a  lonesome  trolley-car  that  fled  up  the  mountain 
side  like  a  startled  animal.  Kirby  was  creedless ;  he  came, 
however,  of  pious  stock,  hardy  John  Browns  of  the  wilder 
ness,  almost  fanatical  in  their  prayer  and  ritual.  Kirby 
had  been  brought  up  in  no  belief;  save  that  he  was 
alive  and  young  and  here  was  life  to  be  lived  at  top-notch 
American  speed.  Nevertheless,  the  religious  streak  per 
sisted,  and  he  felt  keenly  the  mystery  of  being  borne  living 
through  the  human-dotted  night. 

His  dozing  kept  shuffling  his  impressions:  now  it  was 
the  flaring  sight  of  a  train  hand  passing  the  stopped  train 
with  searching  torch,  now  the  photographed  illusion  of 
the  New  York  sky-line,  now  a  scene  of  boyhood.  But  one 
sharp  feeling  persisted — namely,  that  he  was  breaking 
with  his  entire  past  and  merely  by  this  ride  plunging  into 
a  revolutionary  future.  This  night  was  the  vague  link 
between  the  two.  And  that  past,  of  course,  was  all  that 
was  familiar,  homely,  tried;  it  had  its  pains  and  miseries, 
but  they  were  enfolded  in  something  luminous.  His  had 
been  a  slow  boyhood,  with  long  delays  of  sickness  and 
poverty.  His  father,  a  high-school  teacher,  had  died  when 
Kirby  was  ten,  and  the  three  thousand  dollars  of  insurance 
had  been  dropped  by  his  mother  in  the  American  lottery, 
the  get-rich-quick  scheme.  It  was  Florida  land,  "The 
land,"  according  to  the  prospectus,  "that  will  make  old 
age  happy."  Instead,  it  made  young  Kirby  miserable,  for 
the  boy  was  compelled  to  bear  the  double  shame  of  doing 
menial  work  and  of  seeing  his  mother  do  washing  in  the 
kitchen-tub.  Later  his  two  sisters  became  teachers, 
somewhat  relieving  him,  but  even  during  the  high-school 
course  at  Trent  Academy  he  had  kept  a  cow  and  peddled 

7 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

milk  to  the  neighbors.  Besides,  he  was  twenty-two  when 
he  graduated,  at  least  four  years  older  than  the  average, 
and  he  felt  the  difference  keenly. 

Trent  had  always  been  puzzled  about  Kirby.  His  eyes, 
and  sometimes  his  temper,  aroused  expectations;  his 
actions  denoted  listlessness  and  sloth.  He  was  awkward 
and  shy  and  seemingly  indifferent.  But  later  they 
learned  his  secret — that  only  a  big,  overwhelming  job 
could  bring  out  his  power.  At  the  call  he  suddenly  de 
veloped  a  huge,  crushing  strength,  a  bull-headedness  that 
broke  its  way  blindly.  There  was  in  the  last  year  of  high 
school  a  State  debate.  Kirby  got  into  it,  worked  like  a 
demon,  and  nearly  crushed  his  audience  with  his  sledge 
hammer  logic.  This  seemed  to  vitalize  his  whole  nature, 
so  that  he  made  a  brilliant  academic  finish  and  elicited 
from  Professor  Hadden  the  remark  "His  is  the  finest  mind 
I  have  ever  dealt  with." 

The  town  was  prepared  for  miracles.  Instead,  there 
was  a  relapse.  Kirby  became  a  reporter  on  the  Trent 
Blade,  and  did  only  fairly.  The  work  was  petty  and  did 
not  grip  him.  It  did,  however,  bring  him  in  contact  with 
commercial  travelers  and  the  occasional  public  men  who 
passed  through  Trent  from  city  to  city.  And  from  these, 
and  from  the  Associated  Press  despatches  and  the  Sunday 
specials,  he  began  to  get  a  vision  of  that  magnet  of  Amer 
ican  youth,  New  York.  Out  there  was  something  as  big 
as  his  desire,  as  huge  as  his  latent  strength;  there  was  the 
seat  of  power.  Trent  grew  too  small  for  him — a  chrysalis 
that  hemmed  in  his  wings.  But  two  years  passed  over, 
and  he  did  nothing. 

And  then  came  Professor  Hadden's  new  bride,  late  in 
the  spring.  The  strange,  shy  young  man  stirred  her  idle 
mind;  his  powerful  head,  his  amazing  gray  eyes  suggested 
possibilities  when  contrasted  with  his  thin  awkwardness. 
She  ensnared  him,  drew  him  close,  and  "discovered"  him. 
His  fresh  and  unspoiled  emotions  delighted  her;  his  pas 
sionate  speechlessness  was  thrilling.  She  knew  there  was 

8 


ADVENTURE 

a  great  man  hidden  in  him,  hidden  deep,  indeed,  by  the 
pettiness  of  Trent.  So  she  revealed  New  York  to  him: 
Forty-second  Street  and  Broadway  flaming  by  night;  the 
diamond-sparkling  horse-shoe  of  the  opera;  the  brilliant 
tides  in  and  out  the  midnight  restaurants.  Her  spirit 
seemed  to  have  partaken  of  the  ambition  of  the  sky 
scrapers  and  the  conquest-courage  of  the  Wall  Street  pit; 
she  told  him  of  young  men  who  had  come  out  of  the  West 
and  seized  on  power.  New  York,  to  her,  through  the 
meeting  of  a  thousand  streams  of  humanity,  had  become 
a  mad  human  tornado  that  might  suck  any  one  to  the  top. 
There  Kirby  belonged — there  in  the  embattled  center  of 
civilization. 

He  worshiped  Janice  Hadden,  dreamed  of  her,  loved  her. 
He  was  roughly  tender  with  her,  whimsically  obedient. 
She  had  come  down  like  a  flaming  star  into  his  night,  and 
she  whispered  the  way  up  to  those  inaccessible  regions. 
She  evoked  his  full  power  and  gave  him  the  daring  self- 
reliance  of  youth.  Plunging  now  head  first  through  dark 
ness,  his  hand  under  his  pillow,  he  recalled  bit  by  bit  their 
last  night  together  —  the  walk  in  the  campus  under  the 
elms  and  the  maples.  Wind  blew  leaves  over  them,  and 
the  rapid  clouds  let  through  rushes  of  moonlight;  they 
walked  close,  whispering  with  sad  tenderness.  At  the 
gate  came  the  inevitable  good-by.  They  stood  for  some 
time,  face  to  face,  lingering,  and  then  the  sudden  moon 
light  revealed  Janice,  her  face  startlingly  beautiful  with 
pendant  tears.  It  was  too  much  for  Kirby;  he  put  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders  and  kissed  her  forehead.  In  the 
swift  darkness  the  woman  laughed  softly,  pressed  his  hand, 
and  fled.  But  he  was  sure  then  that  he  knew  what  life 
is.  The  last  secret  had  been  revealed.  A  woman  had 
knighted  him  and  sent  him  forth. 

This  memory  was  exquisite  and  submerged  all  others. 
And  so  he  fell  asleep  and  dreamed.  He  was  in  a  palace, 
clanking  from  chamber  to  chamber  in  full  armor,  the 
plates  of  mail  clattering  like  wheels  turning.  Somehow 

9 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

he  was  flushed  with  some  stupendous  victory.  He  opened 
door  after  door,  but  in  each  room  there  were  spangled 
women  lying  asleep  on  couches,  and  he  sought  further. 
At  last  his  heart  swelled  with  poignant  ardor,  for  at  the 
end  of  a  long  hall  were  two  great  doors  of  green  bronze. 
He  strode  up  and  pulled  at  the  handles.  He  sweated  and 
toiled  and  groaned,  yet  thrilling  more  and  more.  Unex 
pectedly,  then,  the  doors  gave  inward,  and  he  was  dazzled 
with  white  light.  He  entered.  Janice  was  seated  on  a 
throne,  a  crown  on  her  head,  her  robes  glorious  with  the 
beating  glare  of  the  room.  He  saw  tears  in  her  eyes; 
she  rose,  stepped  down,  held  out  her  arms.  He  was 
enfolded  close,  as  if  his  armor  were  gone,  and  he  felt  faint. 
She  was  whispering : ' '  You  are  the  conqueror  of  the  world. ' ' 
And  he  replied:  "I  conquered  all  to  come  to  you."  Their 
lips  met;  he  heard  her  breathe  something  of  love,  undying 
love.  But  then  there  was  a  shaking  of  the  door  and  some 
thing  crawling  in  sudden  darkness.  Kirby's  heart  stood  still. 

"What  do  you  want,  Professor  Hadden?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  my  daddy,"  came  the  reply. 

Kirby  rubbed  his  eyes,  rose  on  his  elbow,  and  blinked. 
Something  was  crawling  into  the  berth.  It  was  quite 
horrible,  with  all  his  hundred  dollars  under  his  pillow. 
He  watched,  unable  to  move.  And  then  he  smiled  with 
divine  amazement. 

A  tiny  boy  of  three,  in  a  nightgown,  was  settling  down  at 
the  window  and  peering  out.  The  blur  of  brown  dawn 
was  in  the  berth,  and  he  could  see  the  sleepy  little  face 
and  the  large  round  eyes  gazing  on  the  misty  speeding 
scenery.  The  beauty  of  a  shy,  wet  flower  in  a  rock 
cranny  was  in  the  graceful  pose  and  the  fresh  face.  Kirby 
felt  his  feverishness  leave  him;  coolness,  rather,  and  un 
troubled  beauty  were  in  his  heart.  Smiling  tenderly,  he 
watched  the  cherubic  visitant.  But  the  child  was  lost 
in  the  queer  accidents  of  the  mist — the  brown  crosses  of 
fences  leering  out,  the  green  blur  of  trees,  the  little  farm 
houses  hugged  in  arms  of  vapor. 

10 


ADVENTURE 

Slowly  then  to  Kirby  came  a  noise  in  the  corridor,  a 
hurry,  an  agitation,  the  mix  of  startled  voices. 

"Oh  no,  ma'am;  no,  ma'am,"  said  the  porter,  huskily, 
"no  one  could  fall  off  de  train.  Dis  is  a  vestibule-car. 
De  little  person's  done  climbed  into  de  wrong  pew."  The 
porter  was  unsuccessfully  smothering  his  laughter. 

A  woman's  voice  came,  sharp  with  terror: 

"John,  I  know  he's  been  killed,  I  know  it!" 

Then  a  man's  voice,  exasperated: 

"Don't  lose  your  head,  Dorothy.  He  was  running 
right  after  me  when  I  climbed  in." 

Mirth  rose  excitedly  in  Kirby's  breast.  He  poked  head 
out  and  called: 

"There's  a  boy  in  here." 

He  was  confronted  by  a  disheveled  young  woman  in  a 
nightgown,  and  her  face  dismayed  him  with  its  fright. 

"Let  me  see." 

She  rudely  tore  the  curtains  apart,  carelessly  disclosing 
Kirby,  leaned  over,  and,  with  a  cry  of  relief,  seized  up  the 
boy: 

"Freddy!" 

The  boy  was  amazed. 

"I  want  to  stay  with  my  father"  was  the  last  Kirby 
heard  him  say. 

"I  told  you  not  to  lose  your  head,"  said  the  man. 

The  porter  leaned  in,  chuckling,  and  addressed  Kirby  as 
if  Kirby  were  really  a  man  worth  confiding  in. 

"Yo*  see,  his  dad  had  him  in  de  wash-Toom  and  come 
back  before  him,  and  de  little  person  done  got  lost.  So 
he  picked  you  for  a  daddy.  All  berths  look  alike  to 
him." 

He  roared  with  laughter.  Kirby  felt  flattered.  Life, 
after  all,  was  rather  pleasing.  He  settled  himself  against 
the  window  and  looked  out.  The  landscape  of  New 
Jersey  revolved  outside,  incredibly  fast  near  the  window, 
exceedingly  slow  at  the  horizon;  and  on  the  turning  land 
farms  came  and  went;  and  now  a  mill-town  with  lighted 

ii 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

kitchen  windows,  and  now  a  desolate  wood  full  of  the  wraiths 
of  the  mist,  and  now  a  clanking  bridge  over  the  patient 
level  of  a  river.  Mills  were  at  work,  with  shadowy  forms 
in  the  gas-light ;  smoke  began  to  curl  heavily  from  isolated 
shanties.  Dawn,  welling  voluminously  through  the  at 
mosphere,  touched  earth  with  the  sweet  joy  of  expectation. 
On  this  day  a  young  knight  was  to  mount  horse,  set  lance, 
and  plunge  into  the  first  mele'e.  It  was  inevitable  now; 
there  was  no  escape,  no  drawing  back.  The  train  was 
plunging  heavily  through  the  morning  straight  to  its  roar 
ing  terminal. 

"Yes,  suh,"  Kirby  heard  the  porter  say  to  some  awak 
ened  sleeper  down  the  corridor,  "we'll  be  in  New  York 
in  jes'  two  hours." 


II 

THE    SEA-CITY 

"  \  X  TELL,"  said  the  traveling  salesman,  "here  we  are! 

VV  What  do  you  think  of  that?"  He  pointed  over 
the  gray  river  at  the  New  York  sky-line.  "Ain't  she  the 
big  girl?  Gee!  I'm  stuck  on  her." 

Thus,  like  a  master  of  ceremonies,  he  introduced  New 
York  to  Kirby.  They  were  standing  at  the  front  gates 
of  the  ferry,  which  punctually  at  seven-ten  was  moving 
out  of  the  Jersey  slip.  Again  Kirby  wished  himself  rid 
of  this  glib  mouthpiece;  yet,  in  a  way,  he  would  have 
hated  to  be  alone. 

Several  emotions  clashed  in  him:  there  was  the  sheer 
physical  relief  of  being  out  of  the  train,  of  breathing  fresh 
air  and  seeing  distance  all  around  his  head;  there  was  the 
sharp  exhilaration  of  the  inlander  smelling  the  sea  for 
the  first  time,  with  a  dawning  realization  of  the  flowing 
vastness  of  the  earth;  there  was  the  sky-hung  beauty  of 
New  York.  But,  insistently  breaking  its  way  through 
all,  there  was  a  feeling  of  growing  panic,  the  raw  recruit 
marching  inevitably  into  the  first  dread  perils  of  war. 
Kirby 's  thought  was:  "Now  I'm  up  against  it."  He 
might  have  been  catching  the  first  whiff  of  the  anaesthetic 
as  he  lay  inescapably  on  the  operating-table. 

"Where  you  going  first?"  asked  the  salesman. 

Kirby's  face  flushed. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  stammered. 

"Breakfast?" 

"Yes— yes." 

Again  the  salesman  took  his  measure  with  amused 

13 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

tolerance.     All  he  saw  was  a  yokel  who  was  woefully 
ignorant. 

"Well,  you  want  to  cut  across  to  Broadway,"  he  said, 
pleasantly,  "and  try  Childs'.  Can't  miss  it — white 
front,  lots  of  plate-glass,  right  near  the  head  of  Cortlandt. 
I'd  be  with  you,  but  I've  got  a  wife  up  in  Harlem,  so  I'll 
beat  it  up  the  elevated  line  and  let  her  scramble  some  eggs 
forme.  Gee!  I'm  like  a  fish  dropped  in  water  again." 

These  words  went  through  Kirby  as  through  a  sieve. 
His  emotions  were  overwhelming.  Salt  water  washed 
breakingly  against  the  prow  of  the  boat,  and  with  the  cool 
sea-wind  there  was  a  gray,  slow-moving  heaven,  spilling 
between  cloud-gaps  shafts  of  luminous  sunlight  that 
traveled  slowly,  lighting  up  one  scene  after  another — a 
passing  tug  with  shining  brass  railings,  a  group  of  red 
roofs,  a  far-seen  deep-cut  street,  the  smokes  about  a  red 
gas-works,  even,  a  moment,  rare  sight!  flashing  the 
windowed  heights  of  the  World  Building  and  tipping  the 
top  with  molten  gold.  Like  shifting  scenes  the  city  came 
and  went,  yet  ever  the  gray  block  of  towering  buildings, 
piled  one  on  another,  the  pyramidal  city  of  the  sea;  and 
at  its  base  the  black  wharves  and  the  masts,  funnels  of 
the  sea-going  liners,  low,  squalid  streets  of  red,  all  risen 
from  the  busy  gray  river-waters.  The  weave  of  harbor 
craft  around  the  swimming  ferry  spoke  of  immense  hu 
manity  in  motion;  and  the  sky-hung  city  under  its  gray 
clouds  stood  like  the  very  House  of  Civilization. 

It  was  not  what  Kirby  expected;  it  was  too  real,  sharp, 
and  varied.  One  could  not  lay  hands  on  it.  It  seemed  to 
mean  that  there  were  big  brains  in  the  world;  huge, 
powerful  dreamers  who  had  projected  this  immensity  and 
ruled  it  from  the  tower-tops.  Kirby's  vision  of  a  golden 
metropolis  of  cloud  melted  away.  He  felt  like  a  burglar 
about  to  break  into  a  guarded  mansion. 

The  boat  nosed  into  the  slip  and  bumped  still;  the 
gates  parted. 

"Hustle!"  cried  the  salesman.     "Hustle!" 

14 


THE    SEA-CITY 

Unconsciously  he  sounded  the  keynote  of  New  York; 
unconsciously  he  took  up  the  New  York  pace  and  tore 
over  the  cobblestones  and  up  Cortlandt  Street  as  if  time 
was  being  cornered  by  a  broker,  with  the  price  soaring. 
Kirby  flew  after  him  through  the  dingy,  sleeping  street 
until  they  paused  under  the  Sixth  Avenue  elevated  road. 

"Good  luck,"  cried  the  New-Yorker.  "Remember — 
Quids',  white  front,  right  near  the  head  of  the  street. 
Be  spry,  look  where  you're  going,  and  beware  the  'con' 
men."  He  laughed  at  his  early-morning  wit.  "You're 
all  right;  just  keep  a-shoving  and  a-pushing.  S'long!" 

And  he  sprinted  breathless  into  the  ghostly  limbo  of 
New  York,  like  foam  melting  back  into  the  sea.  Once 
vanished,  when  does  a  New-Yorker  ever  reappear? 

Lugging  his  heavy  suit-case  past  the  closed  shops, 
Kirby  was  lonelier  than  ever  before  in  his  life.  He  stopped 
at  the  corner  of  Broadway  to  get  his  bearings:  half- 
empty  cable-cars  were  passing  him  up  and  down  the  long, 
gray  canon,  skyscrapers  towered  above  his  five-feet-nine 
of  man,  the  early-morning  shadows  were  dark  and  long, 
and  he  seemed  to  stand  in  the  deep  pit  of  a  deserted  city. 
The  morning  rush  had  not  yet  begun.  This  was  the  mere 
shell  of  the  city,  like  clothes  over  a  chair-back  waiting 
the  wearer. 

Kirby  felt  as  if  he  had  been  ensnared  by  some  uncanny 
power;  he  could  not  cease  staring,  he  could  not  stop  the 
throb  of  fear  in  his  heart.  His  loneliness  was  terrific,  not 
a  soul  he  knew,  not  even  a  path  he  knew  out  of  this 
labyrinth.  The  city  was  too  big;  it  seemed  to  extend  to 
immense  distances,  infinite  spaces.  He  could  not  believe 
that  it  was  his  old  familiar  self  set  down  in  this  stone 
fastness. 

Then  he  saw  Quids',  and  almost  laughed.  It  was  a 
friendly  haven ;  he  could  go  in  there  and  hide.  The  mere 
action  brought  relief.  He  purchased  a  morning  paper 
and  stepped  into  the  shining  imitation-marble,  glassy, 
porcelain-tiled  restaurant  and  sat  down  at  a  glistening 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

table.  A  tired  waitress  hovered  over  him,  soothing  him 
vaguely  with  her  femininity. 

He  spoke  with  effort. 

"A  cup  of  coffee — two  four-minute  boiled  eggs — 
toast." 

While  he  waited  he  glanced  at  the  newspaper.  The 
head-lines  meant  nothing  to  him,  and  yet  seemed  to  shelter 
him  from  the  ruthless  city:  "Big  Fire  in  Forty-second 
Street,"  "The  President's  Message,"  "Girl  Found  Dead 
in  East  River,"  "Danby  Wins  Divorce."  Then  he 
awoke  and  turned  to  the  advertising  section.  "Boarders 
Wanted."  Evidently  there  were  plenty  of  places. 

64th  St.,  115  West. — Large,  pleasant  room,  suitable  for  i  or  2; 

excellent  table;    moderate. 
720!  St.,  152  West. — Cultured  surroundings  for  girls  studying 

music,  art,  opera,  concerts;    references;    moderate. 

And  so  it  ran  for  over  a  column.  It  was  fascinating. 
It  gave  visions  of  comfort,  sunniness,  security,  somewhere 
in  the  stone  wilderness.  Somewhere  he  could  find  warmth. 
Mrs.  Hadden  had  suggested  the  neighborhood  of  Twenty- 
third  Street  West  as  being  central  and  cheap.  Kirby 
marked  a  couple  of  advertisements  and  ate  his  breakfast. 

He  had  no  desire  to  leave  his  haven,  but  when  he  ven 
tured  out  he  had  the  amazing  experience  of  stepping  into 
a  different  city,  as  if  the  sea-city  changed  like  the  sea  itself. 
For  now  the  morning  rush  was  under  way;  from  Brooklyn, 
Jersey,  Staten  Island,  and  Harlem  the  population  was 
coming,  coming,  jamming  the  clanging  cars,  pouring  up 
side  streets,  clanking  down  Broadway,  as  if  some  great 
hand  had  opened  all  the  flood-gates.  Sunlight  traveled 
over  the  bobbing  heads;  the  air  was  full  of  bustle  and 
awakened  energy;  great  deeds  were  afoot;  world  labor 
was  under  way;  humanity  was  going  to  its  day's  work. 

Kirby 's  loneliness  sharpened;  he  longed  to  be  one  of 
these.  They  were  all  inside  the  machine,  they  all  had  a 

16 


THE    SEA-CITY 

share  in  the  glorious  action  of  the  metropolis;  but  he  was 
outside,  a  stranger,  without  foothold,  without  even  toe 
hold.  He  wedged  his  way  through  against  the  downward- 
striving  stream;  he  could  have  taken  a  car  had  he  not 
been  enchanted  by  this  drive  of  the  multitude ;  he  merely 
wanted  to  go  on  and  on,  breaking  deeper  and  deeper 
into  this  tumultuous  city.  That  he  could  ever  find  con 
nections  in  this  rush  and  bigness,  become  a  part  of  it,  and 
be  recognized  in  it,  seemed  quite  hopeless. 

He  passed  City  Hall  Park,  saw  the  flags  flapping  on 
towers,  the  bend  of  trees  in  the  breeze,  beheld  faces  at 
windows,  passed  endless  plate-glass  of  sparkling  shops, 
then  followed  Broadway  into  the  wholesale  district. 
Huge  building  operations  were  under  way,  great  blotches 
of  the  earth  torn  out,  swarming  with  men  and  carts,  drills 
and  engines;  half -built  skyscrapers  showed  their  steel 
skeletons  against  the  gray  clouds.  Despite  its  largeness, 
Kirby  could  feel  that  it  was  a  city  in  process,  unfinished, 
full  of  pioneering,  with  a  dream-world  before  it. 

And  the  peril  of  it  was  evident — the  peril  of  crossing 
the  street,  of  the  high  buildings,  the  hollow  cellarage. 
So  that  the  pride,  the  stride  of  these  perishable  inhabitants 
was  astounding.  They  took  it  all  for  granted:  newsboys 
shouted,  young  girls  flaunted  ribbons  and  with  poised 
heads  met  the  world;  men  swaggered,  smoking,  ogling; 
drivers  swore;  policemen  breasted  the  stream  of  traffic 
in  mid-gutter. 

Out  of  the  heavens  like  a  spider  dropping  on  its  own 
unraveling  thread  a  man  astride  a  beam,  clutching  a 
derrick-rope,  was  lowered  from  the  fifteenth  story  of  a 
skeleton  skyscraper  to  the  street.  People  paused,  looked 
up.  Kirby  stopped,  holding  himself  together,  a  little 
dizzied.  Down  came  the  spider,  grew  into  a  man,  stepped 
off  on  the  pavement — huge,  overalled,  grimly  smiling — 
swore  gently,  and  went  into  the  building.  His  non 
chalance,  careless  courage,  familiarity  with  death,  amazed 
the  young  Westerner. 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

Then,  as  he  stepped  on,  a  feeling  of  unreality  possessed 
him.  All,  all  was  unreal.  It  was  as  if,  like  Alice,  he  had 
stepped  through  the  looking-glass  and  was  wandering  in  the 
depths  of  a  reflected  world;  or  as  if  he  were  a  pilgrim 
elbowing  a  proud  remote  people ;  or  as  if  he  were  in  a  city 
hung  in  the  skies  with  mammoth  shadow-depths.  It  was 
hardly  real  enough  to  hate ;  but  he  knew  that  it  was  cruel 
and  bitter,  and  he  knew  his  own  atomic  insignificance. 
That  he  should  have  dreamed  of  conquering  the  illimitable ! 

His  heart  ached  as  he  turned  in  at  dirty  Twenty-sixth 
Street.  There  were  three-story  red-brick  dwellings,  there 
were  faded  brown-stone  houses.  All  was  dingy  respec 
tability.  Suddenly  he  had  a  sense  of  revolt.  He  felt 
that  he  could  not  live  in  this  dirty  stone  honeycomb. 

Many  labels  were  over  door-bells:  "Room  and  Board," 
"Gentlemen  Boarders  Wanted,"  "Rooms  for  Rent." 
But  the  houses  seemed  repulsive;  all  save  one,  English 
basement  with  brass  railings,  immaculately  neat  and  cur 
tained,  and  touched  with  a  healing  repose  that  its  excited 
dirty  neighbors  lacked.  There  was  no  label  over  the  bell, 
but  there  was  a  flaunting,  mysterious  red  sign  in  the 
window — a  sign  supplementing  the  label  in  the  other 
houses. 

"Of  course  it  will  be  too  expensive."  Kirby  smiled 
grimly  as  he  pulled  the  bell-handle. 

To  his  astonishment  a  stout,  suspicious-eyed  butler 
opened  the  door  and  glared  at  Kirby's  clothes. 

"Well!"  he  snapped. 

Kirby  quailed. 

"I  came" — he  hesitated — "to  see  about  renting  a 
room." 

The  butler  looked  as  if  his  ears  belied  him.  The  insult 
made  him  tingle. 

"  Do  you  take  this  for  a  lodging-house?"  he  cried. 

Kirby  began  to  grow  angry;  his  temper  gave  him 
courage. 

"You  have  a  sign  in  your  window,"  he  said,  hotly. 

18 


THE    SEA-CITY 

It  was  the  butler's  turn  to  tremble. 

"A— sign?" 

"Yes,  a  red  sign." 

The  butler  stared  at  Kirby  and  snorted  a  "Huh!"  of 
relief.  Then  he  spoke  tartly  to  the  point. 

"That,  young  fellow,  is  a  garbage  sign;  it's  a  sign  for 
the  passing  garbage  man.  Now  clear  out  of  here!  The 
idea!" 

And  the  door  slammed  in  Kirby's  face.  The  amazing 
insolence  of  this  New  York  lackey  was  a  death-blow  to 
Kirby's  American  equality.  He  knew  now  that  a  superior 
breed  of  men  existed.  And  yet  he  was  joyous.  Lightly 
he  swung  along  the  street,  stopping  to  glance  at  the  paper 
again  for  the  "ads"  he  had  marked. 

He  tried  the  first  house.  It  was  a  four-story  faded 
brownstone  with  a  high  stoop.  The  fat,  unkempt  landlady 
opened  the  door  half-way  and  stood  guarding  it. 

"Yes."  Her  face  was  flabby,  but  her  red-rimmed  eyes 
were  keen. 

"Everybody  in  this  city,"  thought  Kirby,  "is  suspi 
cious." 

"I'm  looking  for  a  room,"  he  said. 

11  With  board?" 

"Well— perhaps." 

"It's  the  only  kind  we  take.  How  much  do  you  want 
to  pay?" 

She,  too,  was  measuring  him  from  head  to  foot,  a  dis 
concerting  process.  He  felt  his  cheeks  getting  hot. 

"Oh — about  seven."  He  was  ashamed  of  his  poverty. 
"Later,"  he  added,  but  without  conviction,  "I'll  pay 
more." 

"Eight's  our  lowest.     The  skylight  room's  taken." 

He  was  abashed;  she  spoke  as  if  eight  were  the  lowest 
level  of  poverty. 

"  It  '11  be  all  right,"  he  muttered. 

"Alone?    Just  you?" 

"Yes." 

3  J9 


"You're  lucky  to  come  this  morning.  I've  only  one 
room  left.  And  the  demand  grows." 

She  led  the  way  up  the  faded  carpet  of  the  stairs,  and 
Kirby  could  see  her  slippers  almost  flapping  off  with  each 
step.  The  house  smelled  damp  and  dusty,  as  if  there 
were  no  ventilation.  It  was  depressing. 

On  the  top  floor,  in  the  larger  luminousness  of  a  sky 
light,  she  unlocked  and  opened  a  front  door  and  disclosed 
a  tiny  hall-bedroom,  with  narrow,  white-covered  iron  bed, 
washstand,  and  chair.  The  walls  had  a  dirty  green- 
patterned  paper;  the  window  was  curtained  with  tawdry 
imitation  lace.  There  was  not  space  for  a  trunk;  hardly 
space  for  a  shelf  with  hooks  and  cotton  curtains  for  the 
hanging  of  clothes. 

Kirby  thought  of  his  spacious,  clean,  sweet  room  at 
home,  the  ample  bed,  the  elm  branches  swaying  outside 
the  open  windows,  the  spaciousness  and  peace.  A  lump 
rose  in  his  throat;  his  eyes  dimmed.  He  had  indeed  broken 
with  his  past.  And  was  it  worth  the  while? 

"This  is  the  room,"  said  the  independent  woman. 
"Eight  dollars  a  week — which  includes  breakfast  and 
supper  on  week-days  and  three  meals  on  Sundays.  It's 
dirt  cheap  at  that,  with  the  cost  of  living  rising  every  day. 
What  are  your  references?" 

Kirby  could  only  say,  humbly: 

"I'm  a  stranger  here.     I  come  from  Iowa." 

Something  in  his  voice  made  the  woman  examine  his 
face  again.  She  saw  the  gray  eyes.  She  spoke  more 
softly. 

"That's  all  right,  Mister.  Pay  me  four  dollars  de 
posit  and  I'll  take  you  as  you  are." 

He  was  grateful  for  the  sympathetic  tone.  He  paid, 
and  she  shuffled  off,  leaving  him  the  room  key  and  a  house 
key.  Then  he  shut  the  door  and  stood  in  a  dream  of  the 
past  and  present.  Hucksters  shouted  on  the  street,  the 
voices  of  children  rose  in  the  air,  somewhere  a  street-organ 
was  grinding  out  a  melancholy  tune,  bells  of  the  rag-man 

20 


THE    SEA-CITY 

jangled,  and  in  the  distance  rose  and  fell  the  thunder  of 
the  elevated  train.  Beneath  all  was  the  persistent  un 
dertone  of  a  great  city,  the  muffled  clamor,  in  all 
directions  life  palpitating,  and  Kirby  enmeshed  in  the 
heart  of  it. 

But  this  was  a  refuge,  this  room.  He  washed  the  soot 
out  of  his  ears  and  nose  and  mouth  and  stretched  himself 
on  the  cotton-smelling  bed.  It  was  lunch-time,  but  he 
was  too  tired  to  go  out,  and  yet  he  could  not  sleep.  The 
streets,  the  crowds,  the  sky-line,  the  swaying  sleeper  with 
its  visions  of  the  night,  kept  beating  through  his  brain  like 
the  endless  tramp  of  a  procession.  The  hours  passed,  the 
afternoon  waned. 

At  last,  stiff  and  cold,  he  aroused  himself,  cleared  off 
the  washstand,  and  used  it  as  a  desk.  He  wrote  briefly 
to  Jordan  Watts;  he  wrote  weariedly,  feeling  impotent 
and  worn,  and  that  very  little  help  could  come  from  any 
man  in  this  immensity: 

DEAR  SIR, — I  am  taking  the  liberty  of  sending  you  the  inclosed 
note  from  Mrs.  Hadden.  She  requested  me  to  do  so  as  soon  as 
I  reached  the  city,  and  to  give  my  address.  It  is  given  above. 

Sincerely, 

KIRBY  TRASK. 

Then  he  drew  from  his  pocket  Janice  Hadden's  letter, 
and  gazed  at  the  handwriting.  It  meant  little  to  him  now. 
He  was  too  feverish  and  weary  to  care. 

A  little  later  darkness  came,  and  he  glanced  from  the 
window  at  the  gas-lit  street  and  the  passing  people. 
Evidently  they  were  hurrying  home  after  the  day's  work. 
He  watched  them  listlessly,  lost  in  himself. 

The  supper-bell  sounded;  he  took  coat  and  hat  and 
descended  to  the  basement.  But  supper  was  a  blur  to 
him;  merely  knife-clanking,  tongue-clacking  strangers 
about  the  long  white  table,  under  flaming  gas,  and  a 
powerful  lard-and-cabbage  smell  from  the  kitchen.  He 

21 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

bolted  his  meal,  arose,  put  on  hat  and  coat,  and  escaped 
to  the  cool  street. 

Again  a  change  had  come  to  the  city.  Something 
subtly  beautiful  was  abroad,  something  mysterious,  hint 
ing  of  romance.  It  was  the  call  of  the  women.  Now  the 
population  was  freed  of  its  toil,  and  the  woman's  time 
had  come.  Kirby  was  twenty-four  again,  a  young  man. 
He  heard  the  primitive  call  and  began  to  glow,  to  feel  his 
blood  quicken  and  life  surge  through  him.  The  work-a- 
day  world  was  left  down-town,  and  now  the  women  ruled 
the  splendors  of  the  night.  Kirby,  looking  to  the  east, 
saw  Broadway  flaring  across  the  mouth  of  the  street;  and, 
like  a  fragile  insect  driven  mysteriously,  inevitably,  with 
out  thought,  without  hesitancy,  he  hurried  toward  the 
lights. 

Swiftly  he  turned  the  corner  and  hastened  along  Broad 
way.  A  few  blocks  brought  him  into  the  heart  of  the 
theater  district,  the  white-light  district.  Glowing  globes 
suspended  before  theater  entrances,  sparkling  shop  win 
dows,  brilliant  restaurants,  and  on  the  housetops  a  blaze 
of  advertisements,  made  the  thoroughfare  a  canon  of  fire; 
gold  and  orange  and  blue  beat  upon  the  pavements,  and 
through  the  radiance  the  laughter-smitten  crowd  was 
flowing  up  and  down.  The  cars  were  lit;  cabs  and 
carriages  rolled  past  with  glimpse  of  lace  and  shining  eyes ; 
in  the  restaurants  Kirby  saw  bare  shoulders  and  scintillant 
beauty;  and  all  about  him,  pressing  close,  brushing  his 
elbows,  glancing  daringly  into  his  daring  eyes,  were  the 
faces  of  women  and  girls. 

The  display  of  wealth  in  garments  and  buildings  was 
dazzling;  he  saw  now  what  the  toil  down-town  meant. 
It  was  all  for  the  women,  said  his  young  man's  heart. 
And  here  they  were,  secretly  giving  him  their  laughing 
eyes.  He  wandered  aimlessly,  feeding  his  starved  heart 
on  these  faces;  through  him  and  them  the  night  drifted 
with  mysterious  beauty;  they  were  combed  by  some 
uniting  miracle.  He  heard  the  strange  laughter  that 

22 


THE    SEA-CITY 

seemed  about  to  reveal  the  secret  of  existence;  he  saw 
golden  hair  and  blue  eyes,  dark  hair  and  black  eyes,  warm- 
tinted  cheeks  and  shadowy  foreheads.  His  spirit  seemed 
to  wake  and  laugh;  he  felt  young,  handsome,  masculine; 
he  throbbed  with  pride,  a  young  man  tasting  life. 

This,  then,  was  the  real  New  York — the  New  York 
revealed  to  him  by  Janice  Hadden — and  the  phantas 
magoria  of  the  day  was  merely  an  unrolling  dream  that 
awoke  into  this  splendor  of  the  night.  This  was  the 
magic  city  he  had  come  to  conquer,  the  cloud-metropolis 
of  the  Arabian  Nights  that  was  his  empire. 

The  theaters  swallowed  this  crowd,  and  at  once  another 
filled  the  streets.  The  underworld  was  awake,  flooding 
the  empty  streets  with  its  strange  inhabitants.  Vice 
stalked  the  stone  pavement,  in  spangles  and  crass  attire, 
with  painted  cheeks  and  bold  eyes.  Again  and  again 
Kirby  was  accosted  by  some  woman  of  the  dark.  Not 
now  the  dart  and  swift  passing,  but  the  slow  glide  and  slow 
swerve  of  the  head. 

It  was  late  when  he  groped  for  his  room  and  unlocked 
the  door.  But,  lying  in  the  hard  bed,  he  was  only  aware  of 
his  youth,  his  untried  power,  his  boundless  dreams.  He 
imaged  Janice  Hadden  again,  all  in  white  light,  her  arms 
drawing  him  tenderly  close.  And  he  heard  her  whisper 

"I  give  you  ten  years.  Kirby,  you  are  going  to  be  a 
great  man." 

Her  soft  laughter  evoked  his  own.     He  thought: 

"Wait  till  I  see  old  Watts." 

And  again  he  resolved  to  go  forth  and  attack  the 
strange  metropolis  and  take  it  by  storm. 


Ill 

THE   OUTSIDER 

AT  five-thirty  the  next  morning  Kirby  was  up,  writing 
letters.  First  he  got  the  letter  to  his  mother  and 
sisters  out  of  the  way — a  tedious  chronicle  of  food,  shelter, 
and  health,  with  an  American  prospectus  of  New  York  as 
The  Young  Man's  Friend,  The  Chance  of  a  Lifetime. 
It  was  necessary  to  reassure  a  doubting  family.  That 
done,  he  drew  forth  a  fresh  sheet  and  smiled.  How 
should  he  address  her?  He  wanted  to  write  "Dear 
Janice,"  but  he  didn't  dare.  "Mrs.  Hadden"  was  too 
formal,  "Aunt  Janice"  made  her  impossibly  old.  Finally 
he  wrote  "  Dear  Friend,"  but  even  then  he  wondered  what 
the  professor  might  say. 

Janice,  when  she  received  the  letter,  thought  it  was  very 
"young"  and  destroyed  it  before  her  husband  knew  of  its 
existence.  The  reason  was  very  simple.  Kirby  felt  not 
the  least  bit  romantic,  yet  deemed  it  necessary  to  pre 
serve  the  King  Arthur  atmosphere  of  the  kiss  on  the 
campus.  To  do  this  he  had  to  press  the  loud  pedal  of 
his  emotions;  he  had  to  pump. 

As,  for  instance: 

"You  cannot  know  what  your  least  glance  means  to 
me;  I  am  kept  brave  in  these  strange  surroundings.  I 
feel  I  am  a  man  and  can  conquer  anything.  Brave  the 
stings  and  scorns  of  time.  I  had  a  dream  about  you  in 
the  sleeping-car.  But  I  cannot  write  it  out.  It  was  the 
most  beautiful  dream  I  have  ever  had.  You  were  on  a 
throne,  and  I  had  just  conquered  the  world — " 

24 


THE    OUTSIDER 

Surely  Kirby  was  an  odd  mixture  of  arrested  adolescence 
and  precocious  manhood.  For  a  male  of  twenty-four  he 
was  at  times  strangely  boyish,  unformed,  yet  at  other 
times  he  seemed  almost  overdeveloped.  But  this  had 
always  been  the  contradiction  in  his  character;  it  ac 
counted  for  his  spells  of  listlessness,  his  occasional  blush 
ing  shyness,  his  four  years  over  the  average  age  in  high 
school;  and  then  again  the  emotion  he  had  stirred  in 
Janice  Hadden,  the  daring  of  his  dreams,  the  power  he 
occasionally  flashed,  the  ambition  that  paused  at  no 
limit. 

This  morning  Kirby  was  in  a  jolly  mood.  Opening  his 
eyes  at  five  he  had  become  at  once  wide  awake,  with  the 
acute  sensation  of  life  having  become  intensified.  Tugs 
on  the  river  were  bellowing  against  the  mist,  stray  cars 
awoke  echoes  in  the  unfooted  streets,  the  milkman  drew 
up  and  rattled  his  tin  dipper  in  the  can,  but  otherwise 
the  roaring  tides  of  the  city  were  still  merged  and  lost  in 
the  level  seas  of  sleep.  All  that  bright  life  was  peacefully 
unconscious,  as  though  the  stars  had  not  yet  been  called 
into  the  skies.  Yet  now  at  five  Kirby  could  feel  the  turn 
ing  of  the  tides — the  inevitable  resurgence  and  flood — and 
it  seemed  as  if  the  awakening  of  millions  of  people  added 
life  to  life,  till  there  was  a  welling  of  energy  that  in 
toxicated,  a  telepathic  impact  that  excited  each  nerve; 
a  call  to  action  and  to  work.  It  was  like  the  adding  of  rain 
drops  to  rain-drops  into  a  heaven  of  cloud  until  the  currents 
of  the  morning  electrified  the  mass.  Kirby  was  one  of 
these  drops,  and  the  lightning  played  in  and  out  of  him. 

The  result  was  that  all  his  bull-headedness  was  fully 
aroused.  He  was  alert,  decisive,  clear-eyed.  Thought 
came  easily;  courage  was  natural.  He  was  thoroughly 
himself — that  is,  his  self  had  broken  through  two  or  three 
layers  of  shyness  and  fear.  He  even  looked  different, 
taller,  head  erect,  gray  eyes  sparkling. 

He  felt  now  that  he  knew  the  spread  of  the  city;  hence, 
that  he  knew  how  to  attack  it.  Why  wait  for  a  remote 

25 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Jordan  Watts?  He  was  an  American  young  man,  used 
to  standing  on  his  own  feet,  fighting  his  own  way.  Jordan 
Watts  had  done  this  himself.  Surely  the  world  would 
never  get  too  old  for  the  hero,  the  man  who  carved  his 
destiny  out  of  fate  and  circumstance. 

There  were  a  hundred  possibilities;  notably,  there  was 
reporting.  He  must  build  on  his  experience;  make  re 
porting  for  the  Trent  Blade  the  first  step  toward  reporting 
for  the  New  York  Sun.  And  he  would  take  the  bull  by  the 
horns — go  straight  to  the  city  editor  and  ask  work.  That 
was  the  American  way.  His  pluck  would  be  obvious  to 
the  seasoned  and  sere  New-Yorker,  the  effete  Easterner. 

"Grit,"  he  told  himself,  repeating  the  current  slogan- 
words  of  American  youth.  "Nerve.  Stick-to-it-iveness. 
Push.  Get-there.  Smile." 

Of  course,  all  else  failing,  there  yet  might  descend  from 
the  skies  the  giant  mailed,  hand  of  the  steel  magnate. 

At  six-forty  he  had  outgrown  his  room;  he  yearned  for 
more  kingdoms  to  conquer.  So  he  descended  light- 
footedly  through  the  musty,  slumbering  house  and  en 
tered  the  dining-room.  Sparkling  sunlight  was  in  the 
street,  driving  from  east  to  west,  and  the  low  room  was 
luminious  with  side-light.  Only  one  boarder  was  at  the 
table;  Kirby  sat  opposite  him. 

This  boarder  was  a  bright-eyed  youth,  cheaply  but 
smartly  attired.  A  quarter  stick-pin  was  in  his  scarlet 
tie;  his  collar  kept  his  head  high;  his  blue  eyes  bristled 
and  snapped;  his  tilted  nose  had  an  air  of  delightful 
impudence;  and  the  cupid's  bow  of  his  'mouth  had  scornful 
curling  ends.  Over  his  low  forehead  was  a  thatch  of 
yellow  hair.  Besides,  he  had  freckles. 

Kirby  was  for  the  moment  a  hearty  Westerner. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  cheerily,  and  held  out  his 
hand,  which  the  other  took  with  rather  dampening  sus- 
piciousness.  "  My  name  is  Kirby  Trask." 

"  They  call  me  Si,"  murmured  the  youth,  as  if  he  were 
bored,  "  but  I  am  also  known  by  the  name  of  Kelly." 

26 


THE    OUTSIDER 

"Fresh  morning,  isn't  it?"  Kirby  rubbed  his  hands 
and  smiled. 

Si  Kelly  nodded,  but  without  much  assurance. 

Silence  fell,  while  Kirby  revolved  in  his  mind  the  odd 
fact  that  New-Yorkers  were  icicles.  Why  was  it?  Why 
could  they  not  be  open,  warm,  democratic?  A  waitress 
with  a  pudgy,  weary  face  now  brought  in  Si's  breakfast. 

The  latter  glanced  at  her  with  charming  impudence. 

"Well,  Gert,  how  was  the  racket?" 

"i  was  up  till  three,"  she  answered,  wearily. 

"Hot  time?" 

"Oh,  fair  to  middlin'." 

He  winked  at  her,  and  evoked  a  tired  smile. 

"You  want  to  go  out  with  me  some  night.  Say" — he 
waved  his  hand  flatly — "I  know  a  swell  joint  over  to 
Ninth  Avenue  where  the  dames  do  a  regular  joy  dance. 
You  and  me  for  that !  How  about  it?  Are  you  on?" 

"Oh  you,"  she  laughed,  joyously,"  I  wouldn't  let  my 
grandmother  go  with  you." 

And  out  she  went.  Si  leaned  toward  Kirby  with  sudden 
intimacy. 

"Gert's  all  right,"  he  said,  "only  they're  working  her 
good  looks  off  of  her.  Chee!  this  is  a  burg  for  work, 
though.  Now  jes'  think  of  me,  a  bloke  gettin'  a  measly 
dozen  bones  a  week  for  hittin'  stuffed  packing-cases  on  the 
ground  floor  of  a  Jew's  dry-goods  store.  I'm  losing  my 
youth.  Huh!  a  shipping-clerk!  Wait  a  week.  You'll 
lose  me." 

This  amazing  revelation,  and  also  the  implied  threat, 
so  perplexed  Kirby  that  he  could  only  say: 

"Where  you  going?" 

Si  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  wiggled  ringers  over  his  left 
ear. 

"An  inside  tip — keep  it  under  the  lid.     Spot  lights." 

"The  stage?" 

"Sure.  I  met  a  feller  doin'  a  coon  act;  said  he  needs  a 
buffer.  Me  for  the  buffer.  Believe  me,  there's  nothin' 

27 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

in  the  shipping-clerk  spiel.  S'long.  Do  you  hear  the 
morning  whistles  all  a-blowin'  ?  Exit." 

With  one  last  mouthful,  a  whisk  of  the  napkin,  a  "Ta 
ta"  and  hand-wave,  he  vanished.  And  Kirby  ate  his 
breakfast  joyously.  He  felt  he  had  a  new  clue  to  New 
York.  These  folk  were  frozen  because  they  suspected 
others  of  being  suspicious,  but  once  break  the  crust  and 
they  were  familiar  spirits. 

Well,  Kirby  was  young,  after  all.  Stepping  out  into  the 
buoyant  morning,  he  released  a  smothered  laugh  of  joy. 
People  were  hurrying  through  the  vitalized  air ;  he  hurried 
with  them.  A  Russian  news  vender  at  the  corner  sold  him 
a  paper  and  gave  him  directions;  and  he  stood  quite  a 
handsome  young  man  in  derby  and  long  overcoat  at  the 
busy  street-crossing. 

Beyond  him  the  trees  of  Madison  Square  Park  glistened 
freshly,  and  four-walling  the  Square  rose  brownstone 
houses  and  business  buildings  into  the  brilliant  blue  of  the 
morning.  Blue  and  white  twistings  of  smoke  faintly  aspired 
toward  the  heavens,  and  one  great  wash  of  sun  went 
sparkling  over  every  little  object  on  the  ground,  throwing 
tiny  cool  shadows.  The  air  was  fresh,  cleansing  the  lungs 
and  the  mouth. 

A  car  stopped,  and  Kirby  got  on,  and  with  the 
action  he  seemed  to  catch  the  very  spirit  of  New  York. 
For  the  car  was  black  with  people,  most  of  them  reading 
papers — the  clerks,  mechanics,  and  girls  who  were  the  ad 
vance-guard  of  the  morning.  And  Kirby,  holding  his 
paper  under  one  arm  and  hanging  nimbly  on  a  strap, 
seemed  to  merge  with  this  routine  of  the  cars,  giving  him 
self  up  to  the  irresistible  suction  that  drew  large  popula 
tions  into  the  red  struggle  of  the  metropolis.  He  was  of  a 
city  that  went  to  work.  By  the  gods,  he  would  get  some 
work  himself,  know  the  joy  of  creating  one  good  thing  in 
the  world  production! 

Broadway  shifted  by,  crowded  scene  by  scene,  and  at 
City  Hall,  cutting  toward  the  east,  he  burrowed  through 

28 


THE    OUTSIDER 

the  human  torrent  that  Brooklyn  was  gushing  over  the 
Bridge.  Tall  buildings  looked  down  on  the  marchers, 
waving  their  tower-held  flags  as  guidons  to  the  host. 

Life  stirred  around  and  in  Kirby.  He  breathed  faster, 
felt  adventurous,  smiled  happily.  Yes,  this  was  News 
paper  Row;  to  these  buildings  the  snapped-up  news  of  the 
world  flowed  through  wire-nerves,  and  the  vast  drama  of 
man  in  the  very  act  was  bunched  on  the  clanking  presses 
and  then  sown  through  the  sleeping  city.  He  held  it 
under  his  arms — the  miracle ;  he  held  the  last  twelve  hours 
of  the  tragi-comedy  of  the  human  race.  How  wonderful, 
then,  to  become  a  cell  in  the  nerve-center.  That  was  his 
place.  Glowingly  he  entered  the  shabby  red-brick  build 
ing  of  the  Sun. 

Two  flights  up  steep,  boxed  stairs  he  came  on  the  large, 
dirty  room,  with  its  flat  desks  beyond  the  entrance  railing, 
all  lit  dingily  by  the  dull  windows.  At  once  he  was  back 
on  the  Trent  Blade — the  same  lovely  odor  of  printers' 
ink,  damp  paper  fresh  from  the  press,  and  stale  tobacco 
smoke.  He  stood  looking.  The  place  was  quite  empty, 
save  for  a  boy  sprawling  under  a  green-shaded  light  over 
an  opened  newspaper. 

The  boy,  interrupted,  was  of  course  annoyed. 

"Who  yer  lookin'  for?" 

"The  city  editor." 

"He's  out." 

Kirby  felt  unreasonably  angry. 

"When  will  he  be  in?" 

"C>h — couple  of  hours  or  so." 

And  the  boy  read  on.  Kirby  turned  swiftly  and  sought 
the  street.  He  might  have  known,  of  course.  Yet  he  was 
dreaming;  he  was  a  reporter  sitting  deep  in  the  night 
scribbling  in  a  flood  of  golden  light,  or  plunging  down 
perilous  midnight  streets  to  look  critically  on  the  lurid 
gas-lit  murder.  Yes,  he  was  a  soul  plunging  alone  into 
the  cavernous  underworld  of  sin  and  death  and  sleep. 

The  morning  was  yet  young  and  glad;  so  adventurously 

29 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

he  turned  down  eastern  side  streets  and  wandered  deep 
into  a  huge  new  region.  And  as  he  walked  he  was 
amazed.  The  narrow  streets  zigzagged  into  each  other; 
the  squalid  five-floor  tenements  had  their  fire-escapes 
loaded  with  household  furnishings  and  refuse;  the  dirty 
shop-fronts  had  street  displays  of  red  blankets,  strings  of 
shoes,  glass  cases  of  brassware.  Mud  was  in  the  gutter,  and 
resting  in  it  were  lines  of  push-carts  laden  with]  food  and 
cheap  knickknacks  and  hardware  and  haberdashery.  All 
was  like  a  little  old  city  out  of  the  wreckage  of  ancient 
Europe.  But  most  amazing  were  the  people — a  slow, 
turgid,  intermelting  mass,  outrageously  un-American; 
men  in  filthy  clothes,  with  flowing  luminous  beards  and 
greasy  faces ;  fat  women  in  shawls,  a  baby  slung  over  the 
shoulder;  children  in  red  darting  between  the  crowded 
legs;  beautiful  black-eyed  girls,  well-dressed,  pushing 
through  on  the  way  to  work.  And  there  were  cries  in  an 
alien  tongue,  shrill-voiced  bargainings,  bristling  gossip. 

Again  Kirby  had  a  sense  of  unreality.  The  congestion 
and  poverty  were  monstrous.  How  could  people  live  this 
way?  His  notion  of  poverty  was  owning  a  little  house, 
having  many  children,  and  just  scraping  along.  That  was 
American  poverty.  This  surely  was  imported.  Yet  here 
a  whole  world  was  going  on,  a  mere  pocket  of  New  York. 
The  vastness  of  the  city  overwhelmed  him.  It  was  the 
House  of  All  Comers,  and  into  it  poured  America  and 
Europe. 

He  feared  to  go  on  lest  again  he  lose  his  pride  and  abase 
himself  before  the  startling  immensity  of  life.  He  re 
gained  City  Hall  at  ten-thirty. 

A  dozen  men  now  sprawled,  feet  up,  papers  spread,  at 
the  desks  of  the  Sun  office,  passing  affectionate  blasphemy 
to  each  other.  Reporters,  surely.  And  at  once  their 
warm  comradeliness  made  Kirby  feel  bitterly  outside 
again. 

"He's  in  now,"  said  the  boy.     "What's  your  name?" 

"Mr.  Trask." 

30 


THE    OUTSIDER 

"Business?" 

"Personal." 

"Oh,  all  right." 

As  Kirby  waited,  his  heart  started  to  thump  against  his' 
ribs.  The  right  word  and  bearing  might  land  his  future; 
he  must  be  wary.  Then  he  was  motioned  in  to  the  roll- 
top  corner  desk  of  the  city  editor,  and  confronted  a  solid 
individual  whose  eye  bored  through  him. 

Yet  his  reception  was  flattering. 

"Be  seated,  Mr.  Trask.     Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Kirby's  voice  sounded  queer  to  himself. 

"I'm  looking  for  work  as  a  reporter." 

"Experienced?" 

"Yes — out  on  my  home-town  paper,  the  Trent  Blade, 
Trent,  Iowa." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  The  words  seemed  to  pat  his  back,  and 
hope  swelled  in  him. 

"I'm  willing  to  begin —  Kirby  was  ready  to  clean 
spittoons,  but  the  city  editor  cut  him  off  pleasantly. 

"Just  give  me  your  name  and  address,  Mr.  Trask." 

He  drew  out  a  slip  of  paper  and  a  pencil  and  jotted  down 
the  facts.  Then  he  spoke  with  a  finality  that  terminated 
the  interview: 

"Of  course,  as  you  know,  we're  crowded  just  at  present. 
You  might  drop  in  again  in  about  three  months.  Glad 
to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Trask." 

Kirby  wanted  to  launch  his  crushing  logic,  but  somehow 
he  rose  like  an  automaton,  smiled  good  morning,  walked 
with  cruel  self-consciousness  past  the  office-boy,  and  sped 
miserably  to  the  street.  Something  big  and  beautiful  was 
cracking  and  breaking  within  him. 

So  he  rushed  to  the  next  place,  a  dark  wood-partitioned 
interior,  creaking  crazily  to  the  thump  and  thunder  of 
presses  and  a  hurry  of  men  in  and  out.  A  red-headed  boy 
played  with  him  as  if  he  were  a  top. 

"What '11  yer  have,  anyway?" 

Kirby  gulped  a  lump. 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  city  editor." 

"After  a  job?    What?" 

"Yes." 

The  boy  rubbed  his  head  and  spoke  reassuringly: 

"Oh,  you'll  get  it — in  the  neck,"  disappearing  on  the 
last  word. 

Tears  came  into  Kirby's  eyes,  and  the  fear  in  his  heart 
went  stabbing  through  his  self-confidence.  Then  an 
abrupt,  busy  man  dashed  through  the  swing-doors  and 
confronted  him  sharply.  The  editor  seemed  to  give  one 
probing  glance  that  showed  that  Kirby  was  the  lesser  man, 
and  hence  beaten,  and  he  did  not  again  look  at  the  applicant. 

"You  want  a  reporting  job?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  no  use.  Don't  waste  your  time — and  mine. 
We're  choked." 

He  started  to  go,  but  Kirby  strained  forth  one  desperate 
sentence : 

"But  I've  been  a  reporter  before." 

The  other  wheeled  around. 

"Where?" 

"On  the  Trent  Blade." 

"The  Trent  BLADE!"  the  editor  cried  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  Trent,  Iowa." 

"If  such  a  place  exists,"  said  the  other,  sententiously, 
"you'd  better  go  back  there." 

And  he  left  Kirby  hanging,  as  it  were,  in  mid-air. 

Three  other  papers  whisked  him  out  just  as  rapidly  and 
effectively,  and,  standing  buffeted  by  the  swift  crowd  of 
Park  Row,  he  felt  like  lying  down  and  weeping.  He  got 
the  first  twinge  of  the  misery  of  the  unemployed — that 
feeling  of  being  cast  out,  exiled,  and  then  hunted  down  to 
his  death.  He  was  not  wanted  in  the  tremendous  in 
dustry  of  the  city;  he  was  a  lonely  stranger  in  town. 
Suddenly  the  romance  of  the  city  was  shattered  for  him, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  in  a  huge,  dirty,  noisy  pit  of 
stone,  where  greedy  animals  fought  each  other. 

32 


THE    OUTSIDER 

He  was  too  sick  at  heart  to  look  further  that  day.  His 
self-respect  was  breaking  down,  and  the  disillusionment 
was  annihilating.  After  swallowing  a  tasteless  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  portion  of  ham  and  beans  in  a  cellar  lunch 
room  he  went  back  to  his  room  and  flung  himself  on  the 
bed.  A  terrible  homesickness  filled  him  with  self-pity. 
It  was  too  hard,  too  bitter  cruel.  By  contrast  the 
friendliness  of  the  known  people  of  Trent,  the  open  skies, 
the  sheltering  trees,  the  sweet  routine  and  amplitude  of 
his  home,  the  worrying  care  of  his  mother,  and  the  eager 
praise  of  Janice  Hadden,  seemed  like  the  glory  of  the  world 
that  he  had  thoughtlessly  cast  away,  the  pearl  he  had 
flung  to  the  hog-pen.  He  had  ruined  his  bright  life;  he 
was  a  failure.  Just  outside,  bells  jangled,  children  shouted, 
wheels  hit  the  cobblestones,  horses  clanked.  His  spirit 
grew  deathly  sick. 

He  did  not  want  to  face  the  strangers  at  supper;  never 
theless  he  took  his  place,  and  the  plates,  the  cutlery,  the 
food,  the  faces,  passed  around  him  like  a  remote  phantasm. 
Si's  "Hello"  went  unheeded.  He  sat  and  ate  of  bitter 
bread. 

Next  to  him  a  smooth-faced  man  tried  hard  to  be 
friendly : 

"My  name  is  Marston,  Freddy  Marston.  I'm  a  floor 
walker  at  Marshall's.  Say,  do  you  play  pinochle, 
Mr. ?" 

"Trask.     No,"  was  all  Kirby  could  utter. 

After  a  little  while  the  unabashed  floor-walker  came 
back  at  him,  whispering: 

"You'll  want  to  meet  the  girl  opposite  some  time. 
She's  a  model  in  Wall  &  Hansel's  suit  department.  Cissie 
Clay." 

Kirby  glanced  up  and  saw  a  shapely  woman  with  a 
crass  exterior  beauty  directly  across  the  table.  She 
looked  at  him  familiarly.  He  took  a  last  spoonful  of 
bread-pudding  and  excused  himself. 

Cissie  watched  him  go,  and  spoke  to  Marston: 

33 


"The  kid's  homesick.     My!  he's  almost  suicidal." 

No  Broadway  for  Kirby  that  night.  He  wanted  to  hide 
his  head.  He  walked  himself  tired  through  lamp-lit 
side  streets,  and  was  indifferent  to  the  love-making  in  the 
shadows.  And,  back  in  bed,  every  nerve  was  jarred  by  the 
ceaseless  night  noises,  the  voices,  car-thunder,  and  rattle. 
He  felt  feverish,  as  a  man  does  in  the  initial  stages  of 
some  devastating  disease. 

In  the  morning  he  came  down  with  a  cold  in  the  head, 
snuffling,  so  homesick  that  he  looked  self-conscious. 

Si's  wit  was  spun  to  the  empty  air,  and  finally  in  disgust 
he  leaned  forward  and  snapped: 

"Say,  you,  you  look  like  a  stuffed  monkey." 

Kirby  smiled  miserably  and  sought  the  boundless  refuge 
of  the  streets.  At  least  in  the  crowds  he  could  hide  him 
self;  at  least  here  a  perfect  secrecy,  and  no  one  prying 
into  his  heart.  This  was  the  home  of  all  the  unfriended 
and  the  ruined;  he  traveled  with  them  through  the  cruel 
splendors  of  success. 

That  morning  he  tried  the  monthly  magazines,  but 
though  the  assistant  editors  were  kindly  they  held  out 
no  hope  to  him,  and  he  was  confronted  with  that  insoluble 
problem  of  the  homeless — how  to  spend  his  idle  time. 
There  were  as  yet  no  nickel  theaters,  where  an  afternoon 
could  be  sat  out  swiftly;  there  were  only  the  streets  and 
the  hall-bedroom,  preferably  the  streets.  So  he  wandered 
the  friendless  thoroughfares  till  he  was  sick  in  body  and 
mind  and  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue.  And  that  evening 
he  ate  in  a  cheap  restaurant,  for  he  could  not  abide  facing 
the  curiosity  of  the  boarders. 


IV 

GLIMPSES  OF  THE   DARK 

IT  was  the  next  morning  that  Kirby  thought  of  looking 
through  the  "help  wanted"  column  of  the  newspaper. 
He  ran  through  the  alphabet — accountants,  bookkeepers, 
canvassers,    clerks,    managers,    salesmen,    stenographers, 
sales-managers — but  in  almost  each  case  previous  ex 
perience  was  one  of  the  conditions.     He  was  practically 
inexperienced.     It  was  a  bitter  thing  that  experience  was 
demanded,   and  yet  no  chance  of  securing  experience 
granted.     One  had  to  start  somewhere. 
Only  one  "ad"  looked  promisirg.     It  ran: 

CITY  SALESMEN  wanted  by  a  large  typewriting  concern. 
Experience  desirable,  but  not  absolutely  necessary.  Apply  at 
10.00  A.M.  to  MR.  CASTLETON,  Hadley  Typewriter  Co.,  315 
Broadway. 

Kirby  plucked  up  desperate  courage  and  applied.  At 
least  thirty  other  young  men  were  there  ahead  of  him, 
jamming  the  anteroom.  And  they  looked  so  well-dressed, 
smirky,  and  successful  that  he  felt  like  a  vagrant  in  the 
throng.  In  and  out  the  front  office  they  went,  one  by  one. 
It  was  after  eleven  when  the  office-boy  motioned  to 
Kirby. 

Mr.  Castleton  was  a  stout,  brisk,  mustached  man  with 
dark  eyes  ringed  with  signs  of  dissipation.  He  was  much 
too  affable,  much  too  obsequious.  Kirby  felt  that  sales 
men  must  be  hard  to  get. 

Mr.  Castleton  drew  a  long,  black  cigar  from  his  mouth 
and  waved  the  hand  that  held  it. 
4  35 


THE    OLYMPIAN 


"Have  a  seat,  Mr. " 

"Trask." 

"Glad  to  know  you.  Castleton's  my  name.  Well,  sir, 
I've  got  an  A i  proposition  to  lay  before  you." 

Kirby  became  suspicious  at  once,  showing  the  first 
genuine  traces  of  New-Yorkism.  He  listened  in  stolid 
silence. 

"You  see,  our  machine's  new  to  the  market.  But 
already  it's  selling  like  hot  cakes.  Ever  seen  it?  Only 
machine  with  back-stop,  tabulator-key,  reversible  ribbon, 
and  ball-bearing  joints."  Suddenly  he  seized  on  his  desk, 
pulled,  and  a  lid  rose,  bringing  with  it  a  hidden  type 
writing-machine.  "Ain't  she  a  beauty?  Easy  action, 
durable — a  quick  seller.  Never  ran  a  machine,  did  you?" 

"No— I  didn't." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  We  want  talkers,  not  typers." 
He  laughed  briskly,  then  he  turned  sharply  and  laid  a 
hand  on  Kirby 's  shoulder.  "You  can  make  big  money 
in  this.  Twelve  a  week  salary,  ten  per  cent,  on  each 
machine,  and  they  sell  for  a  hundred.  I've  seen  men 
make  sixty,  a  hundred,  two  hundred  a  week.  Just  takes 
nerve  and  a  taking  way.  How  about  it?" 

All  at  once  that  excitation  of  American  business — 
something  of  the  circus,  something  of  the  gambling-table — 
began  to  invade  Kirby.  Anything  seemed  possible. 

"What  would  I  have  to  do — exactly?"  he  asked. 

"Just  this.  We  give  you  a  territory — say  five  square 
blocks — and  you  go  from  office  to  office  and  ask  for  the 
boss.  Of  course,  you've  got  to  have  a  knack — it  takes 
manners,  insistence,  and  you've  got  to  make  people  in 
terested.  Want  to  dress  well,  of  course;  be  a  top-notcher; 
joke  with  the  stenographers,  take  'em  out;  worm  your 
way.  How  about  it?" 

That  "How  about  it?"  settled  the  case.  Through  it 
leaked  the  distressing  eagerness  of  Mr.  Castleton,  and  in 
a  flash  Kirby  knew  that  the  work  was  impossible  for  him. 
He  saw  himself  going  into  offices,  overcome  with  shyness 

36 


GLIMPSES    OF   THE    DARK 

and  rudely  ejected.  He  saw  himself  changing  into  an 
oily,  glib  lackey.  "By  God!"  he  thought,  "I'd  rather 
break  stone.  That's  honest,  at  least." 

A  moment  of  his  concealed  decisiveness  came  to  him. 
He  rose  and  looked  Mr.  Castleton  in  the  eye;  and  when 
Kirby  really  looked,  the  lookee  usually  crumpled  a  little. 

"No.     I  can't  take  it.     Thanks."     And  out  he  went. 

"The  son-of-a-gun,"  thought  Mr.  Castleton. 

Nevertheless,  when  Kirby  reached  the  street  he  was 
quite  desperate.  The  cold  in  his  head  was  worse,  making 
him  feel  detached  from  his  body,  floating  in  space;  and 
the  misery  of  his  outcast  state  became  a  bitter  taste  in  his 
mouth.  After  a  futile  afternoon  he  went  home,  meditating 
on  suicide.  He  could  end  all,  after  all.  He  could  drop 
the  city  under  him,  the  city  with  its  insane  gesticulations. 

However,  he  would  try  once  more,  and  he  would  take 
anything.  Anything  to  tide  him  over,  to  restore  his  self- 
confidence,  to  give  him  time  to  turn  about.  Even  manual 
work,  which  at  least  was  healthy  and  honest.  So  the  next 
morning  he  answered  an  "ad"  for  a  shipping-clerk  with 
the  Curley  Manufacturing  Company  of  Green  Street. 
But  when  he  got  there  he  saw  standing  in  the  gray  drizzle 
of  the  gray  street  lined  with  loft-buildings  at  least  a 
hundred  men  fighting  about  the  entrance  and  several 
policemen  trying  to  preserve  order.  The  sight  amazed 
him.  He  drew  his  coat-collar  higher  and  turned  away 
like  a  dog  that  is  beaten. 

For  now  he  understood.  He  belonged  to  the  army  of 
the  unemployed;  the  vast  disorganized  army  that  slinks 
through  the  cold  and  wet  outside  the  warm,  immense,  busy 
machinery  of  our  industrialism,  trying  to  beat  its  way  in 
to  get  merely  bread  and  a  bed — the  hunted  hunters,  sink 
ing,  many  of  them,  down  into  the  easeful  slime  of  vagrancy 
and  criminality.  This,  then,  was  the  cellarage  of  the 
beautiful  heaven-kissed  city,  the  foul  foundations  flowing 
with  bobbing  heads  and  beseeching  hands  and  hoarse 
cries  for  mercy.  Monstrous  poverty!  Monstrous  in- 

37 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

justice!  Kirby  could  understand  now  why  the  papers 
were  full  of  suicide,  murder,  rape,  and  burglary.  It  was 
the  struggle  for  existence  laid  bare;  yes,  thought  young 
Kirby,  it  was  human  nature  laid  bare ;  the  claws  and  fangs, 
the  animal  ancestry  revealed. 

And  he  felt  now  that  to  succeed  one  had  to  be  pitiless, 
hard,  selfish.  As  for  himself,  if  he  ever  got  in  he  would 
stay  in,  hook  or  crook.  Necessity  made  this  the  only 
way.  It  was  the  first  emergence  of  ruthlessness  in  Kirby's 
character,  the  first  definite  result  of  the  impact  of  New 
York. 

Yet  he  had  the  grace  at  that  moment  to  prefer  suicide. 
What  else  could  he  do?  To  go  on  much  longer  would 
destroy  the  best  in  him — the  human  spirit — until  he  was 
a  mere  whining  beggar.  Better  to  die,  and  an  end  of  it. 

It  was  five  that  afternoon  when  he  turned  in  at  Twenty- 
sixth  Street.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  heavens  cleared; 
but  the  pavement  was  still  wet,  and  all  the  westward 
street  glowed  with  a  divine  rosiness.  Still  beauty  was  in 
the  evening  skies;  exquisite  light  bathed  the  happy 
walkers.  But,  for  all  that,  Kirby  felt  the  tears  of  despair ; 
the  soft  beauty  of  the  street-lamp,  a  bit  of  luminous  gold 
lost  in  the  last  of  the  day,  made  him  yearn  for  arms  about 
his  tired  head  and  the  kiss  of  woman's  love.  Yes,  he 
must  end  it  all.  His  heart  could  endure  no  more. 

He  climbed  the  steps,  unlocked  the  door.  Blinking 
through  the  shadows,  he  saw  the  fat  landlady  waddling 
toward  him,  cutting  off  escape. 

' '  Letters  for  you,  Mr.  Trask. ' '  She  held  out  two  envelopes: 

He  took  them,  glanced.  One  was  an  unfamiliar  hand 
writing,  the  other  that  of  Janice.  At  once  his  heart 
bounded;  blood  rushed  to  his  head. 

"Thanks,"  he  cried,  and  fled  up  the  stairs. 

The  note  from  Janice  was  brief: 

DEAR  KIRBY, — I  was  delighted  to  get  such  a  hopeful  letter. 
By  now  you  must  be  on  your  way  up.  And  even  if  you  aren't, 

38 


GLIMPSES    OF   THE    DARK 

dear  boy,  remember  that  you  and  I  know  what  is  possible,  and 
that  it  is  a  mere  matter  of  time.  Months  even  oughtn't  to 
discourage  you.  If  they  do,  write  me — write  me  candidly — for 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am  your  best  backer,  and  that  nothing 
shall  shake  my  faith  in  you.  All  goes  well  here,  though  I  envy 
you  the  great  city.  Your  friend, 

JANICE  WOODS  HADDEN. 

He  laughed  out  loud,  he  kissed  the  signature,  and  a 
gust  of  joy  swept  him. 

"Oh,"  he  murmured,  "you  came  in  time,  Janice,  and  I 
love  you!" 

Then  eagerly  he  tore  open  the  other  letter.  And  he  read 
his  fortune  in  it. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TRASK, — My  daughter  remembers  Mrs. 
Hadden  very  well.  Can't  you  come  up  and  dine  with  us  at 
seven  on  Friday  night?  Yours  sincerely, 

JORDAN  WATTS. 

The  letter  was  in  one  handwriting,  the  signature  in 
another.  Well,  the  mailed  hand  had  descended  from 
heaven  to  scoop  up  an  unfortunate  from  the  muck  of  the 
city.  It  was  unbelievable.  Kirby  got  up,  tore  off  his 
coat,  slapped  his  knees,  cried  "Hell!  hell!  hell!"  and 
danced  kickingly  up  and  down.  Now  he  was  himself — 
radiant,  powerful,  the  man  of  destiny.  The  cellarage  of 
the  city  was  forgotten;  he  was  to  ascend  at  one  leap  to 
the  high  places.  Such  an  invitation  could  mean  nothing 
else.  One  of  the  masters  of  America,  a  man  who  could 
make  and  unmake  human  beings  by  a  nod  of  his  head  had 
asked  him  to  dinner.  What  a  wonderful  woman  was 
Janice. 

The  cold  in  Kirby's  head  seemed  to  depart,  and  he  came 
down  to  supper  with  flashing  eyes  and  superb  poise 

"Good  evening,"  he  called  to  Si,  gaily.  "How  are 
you?"  to  the  floor- walker. 

"It's  cleared  up  fine!"  he  announced,  to  the  whole  table. 

39 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

In  fact,  he  was  sharing  his  joy  with  these  good  people, 
these  excellent  housemates. 

"Must  have  struck  oil,"  whispered  Cissie  to  Si. 

"Or  a  dead  uncle,"  quoth  Si. 

The  floor-walker  was  thrilled  to  find  another  Ear  in  the 
world.  He  now  pointed  out  the  other  boarders.  That 
girl  there  worked  in  a  box  factory,  poor  thing!  Had  the 
skylight-room  on  Kirby's  floor.  Next  her  sat  a  stone 
mason;  then  the  stone-mason's  helper — skinny,  but  good- 
natured;  the  middle-aged  lady  there  was  a  Southerner, 
Mrs.  Waverley,  taught  in  a  school  for  girls;  that  fellow 
was  a  carpenter;  and  the  elderly  sorry-looking  old  lady 
at  the  top  of  the  table  was  a  translator. 

"Used  to  do  books,  made  loads  of  money.  Now  she 
gets  five  a  column  translating  for  the  Weekly  Digest. 
Knows  personally  a  big  gun  named  Howells,  feller  who 
writes  books  or  something." 

Kirby  was  delighted.  Under  the  gas-flames  they  sat 
there  so  palpably  human.  It  was  charming  to  be  breaking 
bread  with  them. 

After  supper  he  met  Si  in  the  hall. 

"Say,  Si,"  he  remarked,  brilliantly,  "come  to  a  show 
with  me." 

"Oil,"  thought  Si,  "or  uncle."  What  he  said  was: 
"I'm  on.  Joy  for  us." 

They  became  part  of  brilliant  Broadway,  and  sat 
through  a  comic  opera,  a  thing  of  tights,  kicks,  horse 
play,  rose-lit  singing,  and  vulgar  jokes.  Gazing  down  from 
the  balcony,  Kirby  watched  the  apparition  of  a  girl  singing 
and  dancing  before  a  black  curtain,  the  spot-light  daubing 
her  eyes  and  mouth  with  gold  and  the  footlights  splashing 
light  up  to  the  fringes  of  her  short  ballet-skirt.  And  he 
was  a  youth  gazing  on  the  beauty  of  woman,  the  mystery 
of  that  loveliness  of  ardor  and  joy  and  agility  that  flares 
in  beating  light  and  vanishes.  He  felt  subtly  intoxicated. 

Emerging  on  Broadway,  with  heads  in  the  swim  of 
lamp-light  and  the  far  darkness  up  and  down  and  a 

40 


GLIMPSES    OF   THE    DARK 

large  October  moon  looking  out  of  the  loneliness  of  space 
on  the  golden  crowding  of  the  street,  he  was  bewitched 
by  the  unreality  of  life,  the  bulk  of  beings  pushing  this  way 
and  that  into  mystery  and  oblivion. 

"Let's  go  somewhere."     He  pressed  Si's  arm. 

"Say,"  burst  out  Si,  "I'll  show  you  life!" 

That  was  what  Kirby  wanted.  They  stepped  over  to 
Sixth  Avenue  and  down  marble  steps  into  a  cellar.  Smoke 
and  lights  swallowed  them,  warmth  and  noise,  the  smell 
of  beer  and  tobacco.  At  long  tables  alcoved  by  leather- 
cushioned  seats  along  the  wall  sat  men  and  women.  The 
women  were  a  spangled  lot,  with  flaring  cheeks  and 
brilliant  eyes.  Kirby  and  Si  sat  down. 

"What '11  yer  have?"  asked  Si. 

Now  Kirby  never  drank;  but,  looking  about  him,  he  saw 
that  every  one  else  did. 

"Oh,  anything." 

"Two  Fast  Freight  cocktails  and  a  box  of  Natchi  cigar 
ettes,"  said  Si  to  the  waiter. 

Kirby  admired  the  dash  and  worldliness  of  that  order. 
Soon  he  was  sipping  the  flaming  stuff  and  trying  to  smoke. 

"Gee!"  said  Si,  "but  you're  a  hot  sport.  Hold  it  like 
this,  for  God's  sake,  before  any  one  spots  you." 

The  cocktail  gave  him  a  slight  sensation  of  convulsions 
around  the  chest,  but  he  sipped  on. 

"Oh,  hell,  take  a  gulp,"  cried  Si,  "don't  play  with  it." 

He  took  a  gulp ;  and  in  a  few  moments  his  skull  began  to 
feel  too  tight,  and  his  spirit  floated  in  space.  He  looked 
about  him  and  was  aware  that  all  along  he  had  been  a  boy. 
Life  was  here — life!  Now  he  was  a  man.  He  was  pro 
foundly  amazed  by  this  spectacle  of  women;  it  was 
devilish  dashing  to  be  here,  devilish  damned  dashing! 

Cocktail  the  second  followed  cocktail  the  first.  Kirby 
began  to  hug  Si  affectionately. 

"Say,  Si,  I'm  glad — I'm  glad — I'm  glad  t'  meet  you." 

Si  arose. 

"Holy  smokes,"  he  muttered.     "Just  as  I'm  gettin' 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

ready  to  show  him  de  real  t'ing  he  goes  back  on  me  and 
gets  drunk.  Gee!  I'm  glad  I  hit  the  spot-light  to- 
morrer.  Trask,  you  come  home!" 

He  got  Kirby  into  the  street  with  difficulty ;  the  moon 
lurched  with  them  over  the  housetops,  as,  linked,  they 
ambled  down  Twenty-sixth  Street. 

Kirby  was  solemn. 

"You  don't  want  to  think  I'm  drunk,"  he  whispered. 

"You  are  drunk!"  said  Si. 

"Ah,  now,  Si,  don't  think  I'm  drunk.  Just  a  little — 
just  a  little — just  a  little  happy.  Ta-ha-ha!" 

"Quit  your  laughing." 

"What  'd  Janice  say,"  said  Kirby,  chucking  Si  under 
the  chin,  "if  she  saw  me  now.  Happy?  Well — yes. 
But  don't  think  I'm  drunk.  Ta-ha-ha!" 

"  Want  to  shut  up  now.     We're  goin'  in  the  house." 

Kirby  climbed  infinite  stairs.  At  the  second  landing  a 
door  was  open,  and  he  saw  the  Southern  woman  glancing 
out.  Her  gray  eyes  steadied  him,  and  when  he  fell  on  his 
bed  he  thought:  "Is  it  so,  after  all?  I,  drunk?"  and  fell 
into  a  heavy  sleep. 


V 

GLIMPSES   OF  THE   LIGHT 

WHEN  Kirby  awoke  uncannily  in  all  his  clothes,  with 
a  binding  headache  and  a  bitter  taste,  he  remem 
bered  the  gray  glance  of  Mrs.  Waverley  and  was  horrified. 

"  I  did  get  drunk — I,  Kirby  Trask.     And  she  knows  it." 

His  headache  was  bad;  he  almost  shed  tears.  But  he 
arose  stiffly,  flung  cold  water  over  his  head,  undressed, 
crept  into  bed,  and  slept  till  noon.  Then  amazingly  he 
opened  eyes  with  the  singular  sensation  of  having  become 
more  of  a  man.  A  profound  self-satisfaction  filled  him — 
a  buoyant  and  braggart  spirit.  He  stretched  himself 
luxuriously  and  laughed  softly.  No  search  for  work  this 
day;  no  humiliations;  he  was  stepping  at  last  into  his 
natural  sphere. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the  splendid  even 
ing;  then  he  should  ascend  into  the  Fifth  Avenue  man 
sion  and  commune  with  familiar  spirits.  What  could  be 
simpler  than  an  American  meeting  an  American?  There 
was  no  reason  for  feeling  nervous.  Watts  and  he  were 
merely  two  Americans — equals.  The  only  difference  was 
that  Watts  had  many  million  dollars.  Otherwise  he 
was  a  human  being.  He  would  go  to  him  as  an  equal; 
doubtless  he  would  be  received  as  an  American. 

He  leaped  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  window.  The  houses 
opposite  were  nearly  lost  in  mist,  and  the  strange  change 
in  the  world  affected  him  deeply.  Yes,  he  thought,  but 
the  power  of  Watts!  For  four  days  Kirby  had  been 
swept  cruelly  around  in  the  drifting  chaos  of  the  city; 

43 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

and  here  was  a  man  of  the  tower-tops  with  unbelievable 
power  over  that  chaos,  employing  thousands  of  human 
beings,  going  his  way  over  the  world  like  a  king,  whose 
glance  of  approval  could  make  a  young  man.  Any  mis 
step  might  lose  all;  but  the  right  word  would  act  as  a 
charm.  Then  easily  he  should  realize  his  big  ambitions, 
himself  seize  on  huge  power,  get  his  hand  on  the  lever, 
fulfil  his  American  youth's  destiny.  He  would  have 
luxury,  fame,  and  his  whole  nature  flowing  in  stupendous 
pulsations.  Yes,  his  empire  waited  for  him;  a  magic 
circle  opening  at  a  word. 

He  was  mentally  intoxicated  again,  a  young  god  of 
power.  He  laughed,  dressed,  went  gaily  out.  But  looking 
skyward  he  saw  the  sun  a  tiny  yellow  ball  with  an  aura 
of  faintest  gold  infinitely  far  away  in  the  mist,  and  a  burst 
of  nervousness  drenched  him.  He  kept  reassuring  himself : 

"But  he's  only  a  human  being." 

Thus,  pumping  up  gaiety  and  courage,  he  took  lunch, 
loitered  about,  bought  a  new  necktie  and  collar,  and 
finally jwent  into  a  barber-shop.  This  worked  his  undoing. 

He  could  not  resist  that  heart-reading  barber: 
"Manicure  your  nails?"  "All  right."  "Shoes  shined?" 
"Sure."  It  was  most  embarrassing,  and  Kirby  felt  the 
coarse  emotions  welling  from  his  heart.  He  was  pain 
fully  self-conscious. 

Then  came  a  last  blow  to  his  tottering  pride. 

"Say,"  cried  the  amazed  barber,  "don't  you  ever  get  a 
hair-cut?" 

The  insult  rankled,  yet  Kirby  feared  to  offend  a  bandit 
whose  razor  rested  lightly  but  ominously  on  his  distended 
throat. 

"I  haven't  time,"  he  said,  weakly. 

"It  11  only  take  ten  minutes." 

"  No — next  time."  His  cheeks  grew  hot,  for  shame  was 
in  his  voice. 

The  barber  spoke  threateningly: 

"Then  you'll  have  a  shampoo.     You  need  it." 

44 


GLIMPSES    OF    THE    LIGHT 

He  compressed  his  lips,  shook  his  head.  He  could  not 
trust  himself  to  speak.  Whereupon  the  Spaniard  sighed, 
and  Kirby  nerved  himself  for  the  slash.  He  was  sin 
gularly  helpless.  He  had  delivered  himself  as  if  tied  and 
bound  into  the  hands  of  three  strangers.  The  barber 
had  his  head,  the  bootblack  his  feet,  and  a  manicure  with 
a  mountain  of  yellow  hair,  partly  her  own,  possessed  his 
fingers.  It  was  like  a  three-ring  circus — a  delicious  agony. 

But  the  barber  only  sighed  again,  his  professional  pride 
in  danger  of  breaking,  suddenly  sat  Kirby  up,  and  desper 
ately  compromised  by  soaking  Kirby's  head  with  bay-rum 
and  violet  water  and  plastering  the  heavy  hair  down  tight 
on  either  side  a  startling  part.  When  Kirby  emerged, 
with  coat  and  hat  brushed,  he  looked  like  an  advertisement 
of  linen  collars,  and  he  smelt  .  .  . 

The  experience  had  been  crushing;  he  hurried  home  in  a 
state  of  collapse  and  tried  vainly  to  wash  out  the  perfume 
and  to  get  his  hair  wavy.  Then  he  lay  down  and  awaited 
the  dreaded  hour. 

As  the  long  minutes  passed  he  began  trying  on  manners 
as  if  they  were  clothes.  At  the  least,  he  now  concluded, 
he  must  expect  something  stern  and  business-like,  some 
thing  coldly  magnificent,  coolly  keen.  He  must  meet 
proud  power  with  callous  reserve — that  is,  if  old  Watts 
didn't  see  how  he  shook.  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  him, 
his  heart  began  to  hop.  And  everything  he  did  made 
him  feel  worse.  Looking  m  the  glass  revealed  his  agita 
tion,  lying  still  gave  him  time  to  count  his  heart-beats, 
whistling  was  evidence  that  his  courage  needed  keep 
ing  up. 

Six  came;  six  ten;  six  twenty;  half  past.  Then  he  was 
sure  he  was  late,  and  sprinted  out,  hurrying  blindly  and 
with  ^humping  heart  through  the  vaporous  mystery  of 
Fifth  Avenue.  The  swift  action  gave  a  delighted  relief; 
he  began  to  feel  that  he  could  rush  Watts  before  the 
old  man  had  a  chance  to  thumb  him  down.  The  streets 
sped,  and  here  was  the  corner,  the  big  brownstone  house 

45 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

with  the  glass-and-iron  doors.  An  excited  joy  inundated 
him,  and  he  gave  a  last  look  at  his  watch.  It  registered 
ten  minutes  to  seven. 

Kirby  lost  his  nerve  completely.  Ten  minutes  more  to 
wait!  He  went  trembling  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
eying  the  house  with  sickly  terror  every  time  he  passed. 
His  breath  steamed;  he  was  aware  now  that  the  wet 
pavement  was  necking  his  shiny  shoes  and  the  dampness 
wilting  his  tie;  overhead  the  double-globed  electrics  were 
pouring  through  the  mist,  light  flowing  like  a  waterfall 
through  its  own  vapor;  lamps  of  cabs  came  staring  past; 
and  the  city  seemed  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into  sub 
merged  depths  of  mystery.  Kirby  kept  trying  to  nerve 
himself,  to  key  himself  up,  and,  when  some  hidden  church 
bell  mournfully  tolled  seven,  thrice  he  approached  the 
doorsteps  and  retreated. 

He  tried  to  smile,  to  make  his  eyes  flash.  He  said  out 
loud: 

"He's  only  a  human  being." 

And  up  he  went  and  pushed  the  bell-button.  Now  the 
deed  was  done;  he  was  trapped. 

Slowly  the  door  opened,  and  an  unexpected  butler 
barred  the  way.  He  had  not  thought  of  a  butler. 

"Mr.  Watts  in?"  he  heard  his  voice  rasping. 

The  butler  saw  the  face  and  was  naturally  suspicious. 

"Did  you  desire  to  see  him  poisonally?" 

"Yes." 

"On  what  business?" 

"He's  expecting  me."     Kirby 's  voice  shook. 

"What's  your  name,  may  I  arsk?" 

"Mr.  Trask." 

"Oh."  It  was  an  oh  that  punctured  the  young  man's 
breast.  "Step  in  the  hall,  and  I'll  see." 

Kirby  sank  into  a  hall-seat,  helpless  and  unnerved.  As 
the  murderer,  strapped  in  the  electric  chair,  knows  that 
struggle  is  useless  and  that  in  a  moment  there  will  be  a 
shock  and  that  the  sooner  over  the  better,  so  Kirby  sat 

46 


GLIMPSES    OF    THE    LIGHT 

ready.  The  butler  stepped  into  a  dark  room,  emerged 
again,  climbed  the  curving  stairs,  and  Kirby's  hair  stood 
on  end  when  he  found  a  pair  of  eyes  in  that  darkness 
watching  him.  If  his  lips  had  only  been  pliable  he  would 
have  smiled  to  think  that  he  was  regarded  as  a  burglar 
until  he  could  prove  his  innocence. 

Down  came  the  butler  and  murmured: 

"You  will  step  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please." 

He  arose,  took  long,  deliberate  steps,  and  climbed.  He 
was  ushered  into  a  large  reception-room,  glowing  in  corners 
with  soft  electroliers  and  center-lit  by  a  glassy  chandelier ; 
a  rug  stretched  on  the  highly  polished  floor;  the  furniture 
was  covered  with  light-pink  satin,  and  heavy  curtains 
hung  over  the  immense  windows.  This  room  gave  off 
into  a  music-room  that  was  softly  lighted. 

The  easy  luxury  of  it,  after  Kirby's  hall-room,  was  over 
whelming,  but  Kirby  dashed  in.  At  once  the  rug  slipped 
under  him  and  he  almost  took  a  header.  He  was  unused  to 
polished  floors,  but  he  gained  a  sudden  respect  for  them 
and  trod  gingerly.  Then  he  sat  down,  sure  that  the 
butler  had  seen  the  slip  that  had  given  him  away — yes,  that 
had  laid  bare  his  vulgar  poverty.  If  he  could  have  felt 
worse,  he  would  have;  but  he  simply  couldn't. 

He  had  seen  pictures  of  Jordan  Watts  that  suggested 
massive  proportions.  Instead  of  that,  suddenly,  a  little 
fellow  in  a  dress-suit  came  shambling  in,  momently  wiping 
drops  of  blood  from  his  underlip  with  a  stained  handker 
chief.  Kirby  gave  a  sickly  grin;  keyed  up  for  something 
tremendous,  he  was  disconcerted  by  this  poor,  suffering 
mortal. 

"Mr.  Trask?"  The  voice  was  worried.  "Glad  to  see 
you." 

He  offered  a  hand,  his  left,  and  Kirby  tried  to  rise  and 
take  it.  It  was  limp  and  felt  fishy. 

"You  must  pardon  me,"  said  Jordan  Watts.  "I  had 
a  tooth  pulled  this  afternoon  and  my  mouth's  bloody." 

Then  Kirby  saw  a  tear  in  the  magnate's  eye.  This  was 

47 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

wonderful — that  a  tear  should  be  in  one  of  the  wealthiest 
eyes  in  the  United  States.  That  it  sprang,  as  it  were, 
from  the  yearning  abyss  that  had  held  a  tooth  made  no 
difference.  It  was  just  a  human  tear,  the  same  as  drop 
from  you  and  me.  Kirby  felt  like  dropping  one  himself. 
This  was  the  worst  disillusionment  of  all.  Toothache, 
tooth  pulled,  bloody  lip,  a  tear.  And  it  was  for  this 
that  he  had  come  to  New  York  and  spent  a  tortured  day  of 
keying  up.  It  should  have  made  him  feel  easy  and  equal; 
it  only  added  confusion  to  his  unnerved  condition.  He 
pitied  himself  now  out  of  the  depths  of  his  heart. 

"We  all  come  to  it  sooner  or  later,"  Jordan  Watts  was 
saying. 

Then  Kirby  was  aware  that  some  one  else  had  entered 
the  room,  a  young  woman  who  stepped  lightly  up.  Kirby 
could  not  tell  whether  she  was  short  or  tall ;  that  she  was 
slender,  that  she  was  young,  was  patent.  He  was  aware 
of  dark  eyes,  and  thought  she  was  plain-faced.  Her  dark 
hair  escaped  him. 

"Mary,"  said  old  Watts,  "this  is  Mr.  Trask." 

She  nodded  slightly.  Like  Janice,  she  was  affected  by 
the  visible  emotionalism  in  his  quivering  lips,  flashing 
eyes,  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  by  his  passionate  speech- 
lessness. 

Then  quiet  reigned.     Whereupon  Mary  said: 

"  I  think  we  could  go  down." 

And  Jordan  Watts  muttered:  » 

"Yes,  let's  go  down." 

They  started;  Kirby  forgot,  and  the  rug  slipped;  he 
balanced  himself  wildly,  loosed  an  uncanny  laugh,  and 
passed  down  in  a  dream.  He  was  desperate  now,  and 
didn't  care  what  happened. 

But  hardly  had  they  seated  themselves  at  the  flashing 
table  when  two  others  entered,  a  keen-eyed,  smooth- 
shaven  young  man  in  a  dress-suit  and  a  young  woman  in 
an  evening  gown  with  only  bunches  of  lace  dividing  bare 
arms  from  bare  bosom.  Kirby  had  nerved  himself  for  a 

48 


GLIMPSES    OF    THE    LIGHT 

tete-a-tete  with  Watts;  remotely  he  figured  on  Mary; 
he  was  quite  unprepared  for  a  tableful. 

He  shuffled  to  his  feet,  nodding,  as  old  Watts  murmured: 

"My  daughter  Alice  and  her  intended,  Mr.  Cutler. 
Mr.  Trask." 

Their  eyes  seemed  to  use  him  as  if  he  were  an  opera- 
glass  and  they  were  looking  through  at  some  interesting 
spectacle  on  the  wall.  And  suddenly  he  blushed  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair,  for  he  was  aware  for  the  first  time  that  he 
had  on  a  business  suit. 

"Why  in  God's  world,"  he  cried  to  himself,  "did  I  let 
myself  get  into  this?" 

An  invisible  lord  of  food  shot  a  plate  of  oysters  down 
before  him,  and  he  began  grinning  at  an  outlay  of  forks, 
knives,  and  spoons  that  presented  the  great  puzzle — which 
for  which?  Slyly  he  watched  the  others,  and  matched 
them.  This  was  followed  by  his  first  cold  consomme,  and 
it  tasted  villainous.  Yet  eat  it  he  had  to. 

After  that  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  eating,  merely 
lunging,  lifting,  chewing.  The  young  couple  kept  up  a 
lively  talk  as  if  he  were  absent — some  vague  stuff  about  a 
Mrs.  Payson  and  the  dreadful  trouble  she  was  enduring  in 
arranging  a  cotillion — and  like  a  fascinated  creature  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  nakedness  of  the  young  lady. 

Mary  tried  to  be  good  to  him.  She  took  the  first  break 
in  the  conversation. 

"And  how  is  Mrs.  Hadden?" 

Kirby  almost  dropped  a  knife. 

"Oh,"  he  grinned,  "she's  all  right." 

A  pause.     Then  sudden  cotillion  again. 

All  at  once,  then,  the  atmosphere  sharpened.  It  seemed 
like  a  new  voice  speaking.  It  was  Jordan  Watts  asking: 

"Where  did  you  say  you  came  from,  Mr.  Trask?" 

He  turned  and  confronted  a  new  face.  The  eyes  were 
sharp,  probing  to  the  secret  recesses  of  his  brain,  and  he 
noticed  now  the  big,  bulky  forehead  and  the  grim  mouth 
only  half  hidden  in  the  little  graying  beard.  There  was  a 

49 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

terrific  drive  of  power  in  the  face,  something  big  and 
appalling,  like  a  force  of  nature. 

Kirby  came  to  himself.     Yes,  this  was  the  steel  magnate. 

"Trent,  Iowa,"  he  answered,  like  a  schoolboy,  straight 
ening  up  stiffly. 

"Large  place?"  Watts  snapped. 

"It's — yes — well,  ten  thousand." 

"A  village,"  said  Watts.  "What  do  you  manufacture 
there?" 

Kirby  racked  his  brain.  What  in  the  world  did  they 
manufacture  there? 

"Oh — well — it's" — sweat  bathed  his  forehead — "why, 
furniture." 

He  felt  that  the  young  couple  were  enjoying  this  hugely, 
for  they  were  listening  attentively.  He  would  have  given 
his  right  hand  to  escape. 

"And  the  crops  this  year — how  are  they?" 

The  eyes  ransacked  him. 

"I" — he  laughed  uneasily — "I  don't  know." 

"Why,  of  course  they  were  good,"  cried  Jordan  Watts; 
"this  has  been  a  banner  year  for  crops  in  the  Middle 
West." 

Kirby  knew  he  was  giving  himself  away,  that  he  looked 
ignorant  and  little  before  this  trained  power.  But  the 
questions  came  crashing. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  As  if  to  say,  how  in 
thunder  have  you,  an  American  youth,  been  dawdling 
around  when  you  should  have  been  mastering  your 
environment? 

"I — I've  been  a  reporter  since  I  left  the  academy." 

"Reporter?     In  Trent?" 

"The  Trent  Blade." 

"Republican  or  Democrat?" 

"Independent." 

"  Didn't  stand  for  anything,  you  mean.  How  long  were 
you  there?" 

"Nearly  two  years." 

So 


GLIMPSES    OF    THE    LIGHT 

"Large  staff?" 

"Three  of  us." 

"I  see.  And  that  academy;  what  did  it  stand  for  in 
training — vocational,  or  cheap,  vague  radicalism?" 

Kirby  looked  at  him  appealingly. 

"I  really  couldn't  say." 

Jordan  Watts  gave  him  a  keen  glance,  relaxed  into 
misery,  said,  worriedly,  to  Mary:  "I'll  have  to  see  that 
dentist  again  to-morrow,"  and  attacked  some  Nesselrode 
pudding. 

The  terrible  interval  was  short;  Kirby  waited  in  a 
trance,  quite  oblivious  of  the  others  and  eating  nothing. 
Then  came  the  eyes  again  and  the  dynamic  voice: 

"Tell  me  this,  Mr.  Trask— " 

But  Mary  was  ready;  she  saw  that  Kirby  was  being 
vivisected. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  lightly,  "let's  talk  of  something  else, 
father." 

He  turned  on  her  and  spoke  sharply. 

"Please  don't  break  in,  Mary.  I'm  trying  to  find  out 
about  something."  Then  he  resumed  the  assault. 
"What's  the  price  of  a  pair  of  horses  in  the  Middle 
West?" 

Kirby  swallowed  a  lump. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  when  I  was  last  there  it  was  three  hundred  dol 
lars;  here  it's  four  hundred  and  fifty.  You  don't  know?" 

And  then  the  miracle  came.  Kirby  grew  red,  felt  hot, 
and  all  his  tremendous  temper  went  to  his  head.  Like  a 
bull  he  leaned,  his  face  livid. 

"Mr.  Watts,  I  don't  CARE  what  horses  cost  either 
here  or  in  the  Middle  West." 

He  put  a  fist  on  the  table,  ready  for  battle.  But  all  at 
once  a  delighted  laughter  went  up  from  the  young  people 
and  rolled  into  a  shaking  roar  of  mirth  from  the  old  man. 

"Good!"  cried  Mary. 

Watts  leaned  and  patted  Kirby  on  the  shoulder. 
5  Si 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"You're  right.  Come  along  to  the  library,  and  we'll 
have  a  talk." 

Then  Kirby  laughed,  too.  It  was  delicious.  He  felt 
himself  again.  Proudly  he  rose,  proudly  he  strode  after 
Jordan  Watts  into  the  leathery,  table-lit  library,  and  sank 
into  a  deep  chair.  Only  Mary  followed. 

And,  seated  there  in  the  soft  twilight,  he  saw  Mary's  face 
transformed.  He  had  thought  her  plain,  but  now  it  was 
as  if  a  light  had  been  turned  on  inside  her.  Her  eyes 
shone  with  radiance,  her  cheeks  glowed,  she  seemed 
hauntingly  beautiful. 

"You  mustn't  mind  dad,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on 
the  arm  of  her  father's  chair. 

The  old  industrial  captain  drew  her  close,  with  startling 
tenderness. 

"Mustn't,  eh?"  he  said,  rubbing  her  cheek  against  his. 
"Mustn't,  Meg?" 

A  rhythm  of  warmth  enfolded  Kirby,  and  the  missed 
loveliness  of  home  and  the  old  comfort  and  love  became 
real  again.  Mary  stirred  him  profoundly,  and  not  as 
Janice  had;  not  as  a  woman  out  of  the  days  of  knighthood, 
but  as  a  lovely  girl.  Yet  he  felt  that  he  was  younger  than 
she. 

The  telephone-bell  rang;  Mary  leaned  and  picked 
up  the  instrument,  half -seated  in  an  exquisite  posture 
of  grace  and  eagerness. 

"Hello.  Yes.  Yes,  it  is.  Just  a  moment."  Her 
voice  was  musical.  She  turned  to  her  father  and  spoke 
easily:  "Long  distance — Chicago." 

Kirby  was  thrilled.  Chicago,  a  thousand  miles  away, 
was  on  the  wire,  and  these  people  took  it  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Jordan  Watts  spoke  with  a  magnetic  Hit  in  his  voice: 

"Hello.  Yes.  Hello,  Jim.  The  Brandon  Works? 
Wire  Spielmann.  Say  I  order  no  action  on  option  till  I 
reach  Indianapolis.  Get  that?  Good  by,  Jim;  take 
care  of  yourself." 

52 


GLIMPSES    OF    THE    LIGHT 

That  was  all.  Yet,  had  the  magic  carpet  lifted  Kirby 
until  he  saw  America  lying  like  a  map  beneath  him,  he 
could  not  have  been  more  amazed.  He  was  hardly  an 
atom  in  one  great  city,  but  Watts  seemed  not  only  to 
handle  New  York  but  to  reach  lightly  out  over  a  third  of 
a  continent  to  sway  another  city,  as  if  he  had  a  universal 
mind  darting  down  now  here,  now  there,  over  the  world. 
It  was  a  dramatic  act  of  stupendous  power;  and  yet  it 
was  a  moment  of  quiet,  one  moment  in  the  passing  night. 

The  butler  now  entered  bearing  a  card  on  a  tray. 
Watts  picked  it  up.  He  was  annoyed. 

"It's  Van  Ambridge  of  the  Manufacturers'  Association. 
Why  does  he  come  now?"  He  glanced  at  Kirby.  "But 
show  him  in." 

Kirby  rose. 

"I'd  better  go,"  he  murmured. 

Watts  rose,  too. 

"I'm  sorry  this  happened.  But  come  again.  I'm  glad 
to  have  met  you." 

Mary  followed  him  to  the  door,  helped  him  into  his  coat. 

"Remember  me  to  Mrs.  Hadden,"  she  said.  "It  was 
good  of  you  to  come.  You  must  come  some  other  time." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  glistened.  Wonder 
ful  possibilities  stirred  in  him.  She  was  simple;  she  was 
radiant. 

"Good-by,"  he  said. 

"Good-by." 

She  herself  opened  the  door,  and,  stepping  out,  he  knew 
that  she  waited  before  closing  it.  He  was  strangely 
thrilled  as  he  stepped  buoyantly  into  the  mist. 

Then,  all  at  once,  horror  swamped  him.  He  had  not 
asked  Jordan  Watts  for  a  job,  hadn't  even  dreamed  of 
asking.  And  a  little  voice  told  him  that  they  would 
never  ask  him  to  call  again,  he  who  was  so  palpably  ig 
norant  and  countrified,  he  who  was  merely  one  of  the 
great  swarm  that  buzzes  in  the  light  around  a  millionaire. 

S3 


VI 

BESS:   A  SHOP-GIRL 

A>L  the  radiance  in  Kirby's  nature  sparkled  out  the 
next  morning.  Now  that  he  got  a  backward  glance  on 
his  experience  he  found  it  funny,  a  farce  in  which  he  had 
played  the  part  of  unconscious  humorist.  His  nervous 
frenzy,  his  disillusionment,  his  clothes  and  his  manners 
now  seemed  exquisitely  amusing.  But  most  amusing  of 
all  had  been  the  alacrity  with  which  he  had  been  ushered 
in  and  then  handed  out  without  even  a  chance  to  put  his 
problem  before  old  Watts.  And  it  was  this  that  had 
brought  him  to  New  York  with  high  hopes. 

"Una!"  he  thought,  sardonically,  "the  game  is  up. 
K.  T.  is  done  for." 

And  it  was  really  so.  He  had  not  "made  good";  like 
young  Parsifal,  he  had  not  asked  the  one  question  that 
would  have  made  the  future  for  him;  the  great  moment 
had  come  and  passed,  and  he  was  left  to  work  his  way 
alone.  That  he  could  do  this  with  any  immediate  success 
he  now  doubted;  four  days  of  job-hunting  had  shown  him 
the  difficulty  of  breaking  into  the  magic  circle  of  business. 
Even  if  he  found  work  it  meant  drudging  along  for  years 
before  he  could  advance.  Yes,  he  was  beaten;  and  ad 
mitting  it  brought  a  great  relief.  Matters  surely  could 
get  no  worse. 

He  then  decided  that  he  would  cease  corresponding  with 
Janice  Hadden.  She  had  sent  him  out  to  conquer,  and  he 
could  not  write  back  that  he  had  failed ;  it  would  be  better 
to  go  his  own  way  without  the  weak  pathos  of  showing 

54 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

himself  broken.  Besides,  the  image  of  Janice  was  fading; 
he  could  not  recall  her  face;  he  felt  that  he  had  quite 
outgrown  the  ardent  youth  on  the  campus.  And,  more 
poignant  reason,  there  was  the  personality  of  Mary  Watts 
— a  girlish  loveliness  that  possessed  him  and  obliterated 
all  else.  He  felt  that  he  had  met  a  new  type  of  woman  and 
henceforth  could  not  be  satisfied  with  any  dissimilar  kind. 
He  had  no  inkling  as  to  wherein  this  newness  lay ;  she  was 
merely  different,  suggesting  marvelous  possibilities.  It 
was  as  if  his  mind  was  amazed  with  the  newly  revealed 
woman  in  the  world.  That  he  could  meet  her  again 
appeared  remote;  nevertheless,  he  fed  himself  on  hope. 

He  now  felt  distinctly  older,  rich  in  experience,  and, 
hence,  more  decisive  and  more  callous.  There  remained 
but  one  thing  to  do,  and  he  would  do  it — search  for  work 
until  he  found  it,  take  any  job,  and  peg  away  until  his 
footing  was  firmer,  until  he  made  friends  and  possibly 
had  saved  a  little  money.  With  this  feeling  he  now  broke 
the  last  tie  that  held  him  to  the  past  and  ceased  to  care 
what  Trent  thought  of  him.  He  was  a  New-Yorker;  he 
could  do  as  he  pleased,  and  New  York  would  mind  its 
own  business  and  care  not  a  rap  for  his  failure  or  success. 

So  that  morning  at  breakfast,  when  Freddy  Marston, 
the  floor- walker,  said  to  him,  "Say,  Trask,  are  you  looking 
for  a  job?"  he  replied,  eagerly: 

"Sure.     Do  you  know  of  any?" 

"Why,"  said  Marston,  raising  an  interrogating  fork, 
"don't  you  come  into  the  store?" 

"Can  I  get  in?" 

"Oh,  I  can  fix  that!"  Marston's  cut-away  seemed  to 
expand.  ' '  Of  course  it's  start  low,  and  toe  the  mark,  with 
your  insides  full  of  patience.  But  there's  a  future;  / 
started  as  cash-boy."  Then,  just  as  Kirby  felt  elated, 
the  floor-walker  added:  "Now  I'm  getting  eighteen  a 
week." 

"How  long  were  you  at  it?"  asked  Kirby,  sharply. 

"Oh — let's  see — just  twelve  years." 

55 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Kirby  choked  over  a  spoonful  of  egg  and  blew  little  bits 
on  the  table-cloth.  Marston  felt  injured. 

"I  wasn't  suggesting,"  he  said,  tartly,  "that  you  start 
as  a  cash-boy.  But  of  course — " 

"What  could  I  start  at?" 

"Mentioning  my  name  to  Mr.  Spiegel,  and  speaking 
bright,  you  might  start  almost  as  anything.  But  of 
course — " 

" Oh,  forget  it,"  cried  Kirby,  lightly.  "Take  me  along. 
I'm  spoiling  for  a  job." 

So  they  went  together  up  Broadway  until  they  reached 
the  big  block  building  of  Marshall's,  with  its  enticing 
window  displays  of  women's  dresses  on  large-eyed  wax 
models,  men's  shirts  and  ties,  books  and  stationery, 
furniture  for  furnishing  a  four-room  flat,  all  garnished 
with  imitation  autumn  leaves  and  backed  by  mirrors.  A 
stream  of  shop-girls  and  salesmen  went  blackly  down  the 
side  street  and  into  the  rear  entrance.  It  was  just  ten 
minutes  of  eight. 

There  came  a  humiliating  moment  for  Mr.  Marston. 

"I — I've  got  to  go  in  the  back.  But  you  trudge  around 
till  a  little  after  eight,  go  in  the  front,  and  ride  to  the 
eighth  floor.  Ask  for  Mr.  Spiegel,  and  mention  me." 

That  going  to  the  back  entrance  marked  him  with 
something  servile,  and  he  vanished  quickly. 

Kirby  paced  lazily  along  Broadway.  He  was  becoming 
enough  of  a  New-Yorker  to  go  through  crowds  as  if  they 
did  not  exist,  through  streets  as  if  there  were  no  back 
ground  of  stony  distances;  only  shop  windows  and  an 
occasional  fresh  face  caught  his  eye.  He  began  to  take 
it  all  for  granted;  the  spectacle  of  the  tumultuous  city 
had  ceased  to  be  amazing. 

It  was  eight-thirty  when  Kirby  stepped  into  the  store. 
Shop-girls  were  laughing  and  gossiping  together  behind 
the  heaped  counters;  floor-walkers  paraded  the  empty 
aisles.  A  quivering  expectation  was  in  the  air,  a  sense  of 
preparation  for  exciting  events.  Here  and  there  an  early 

56 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

shopper  was  matching  samples  or  inspecting  goods.  To 
Kirby  the  crowded  display  was  extraordinarily  lavish,  as 
if  all  the  riches  of  the  world  had  been  gathered  together 
to  be  poured  out  to  a  moneyed  city.  There  was  some 
thing  Oriental  in  this  gathering  of  the  products  of  manu 
factory  and  mill,  mine  and  the  fields  of  earth;  like  a  gor 
geous  Eastern  fair  when  the  caravans  come  together.  He 
wondered  where  all  the  money  came  from  to  make  these 
things  and  to  buy  them,  for  he  wanted  some  himself. 

The  elevator  took  him  up  to  the  eighth  floor,  and  he 
entered  a  network  of  partitioned  offices.  A  boy  asked 
him  for  his  card. 

'  Oh,  just  tell  Mr.  Spiegel  Mr.  Trask  was  sent  by  Mr. 
Marston." 

A  minute  passed,  and  he  was  ushered  into  the  seated 
presence  of  a  singularly  tall  and  attractive  young  man, 
smooth-shaven  and  hazel-eyed.  Mr.  Spiegel  motioned 
him  into  a  chair. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked,  agreeably. 

"Mr.  Marston  sent  me — 

"Marston?     Which  Marston?" 

There  was  another  swift  shrinkage  of  the  floor-walker. 
Kirby  began  to  feel  nervous. 

"He's  floor-walker,  men's  furnishings." 

"Oh  yes!"  But  such  an  absent-minded  exclamation. 
"And  what  for?" 

Kirby  became  painfully  self-conscious;  he  was  asking 
for  work  again. 

"He  thought  possibly  you  had  an  opening — a  place  with 
a  future  in  it." 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  Mr.  Spiegel. 

Kirby  flushed. 

"Twenty-four." 

Mr.  Spiegel  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  to  sell  behind  a  counter." 

"No,"  said  Kirby,  eagerly,  "not  unless  I  had  to.  I'd 
like  a  job  where  there's  a  chance  of  working  up." 

57 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"Well,."  said  Mr.  Spiegel,  "it  just  happens  that  I  have 
some  such  job.  We  need  a  young  man  in  the  buyers' 
department  to  meet  the  outside  salesmen  when  they  come 
in  and  make  them  feel  at  home;  then  a  little  clerical  work 
for  the  buyers.  It's  not  hard,  and  it  may  lead  to  some 
thing  better.  But  it  pays  nine  a  week." 

Kirby's  heart  shrank. 

"I  pay  eight  board,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Spiegel  smiled  and  spoke  kindly. 

"Would  ten  do — for  a  while — to  tide  things  over?" 

So  Kirby  got  his  first  job.  Coming  down  in  the  elevator 
he  had  a  glimpse  of  moons  of  light  strung  along  the  ground- 
floor  ceiling;  and  down  in  the  mellowness  the  sparkle  of 
metal  and  bright  cloth  and  a  fierce  intermoving  mass  of 
humanity,  a  tumult  of  faces,  an  interior  electric-lit  city. 
A  great  hum  arose  from  the  multitude,  a  joyous  clash  of 
sounds — the  women  buying,  buying,  for  the  ever-hungry 
homes  and  the  splendors  of  their  nights.  He  was  to  be  a 
part  of  the  machinery  that  decked  out  the  women  of  the 
city  in  jewels  and  fine  cloth  for  the  joy  of  men's  love.  It 
was  not  Utopian,  but  it  was  a  foothold,  and  Kirby  was 
sane  after  his  harsh  job-hunting.  He  bought  an  alarm- 
clock  at  a  loaded  counter  and  went  home  with  an  uneasy 
sense  of  responsibility. 

At  six-thirty,  then,  on  Monday  morning  his  alarm-clock 
shot  him  out  of  bed;  at  ten  minutes  of  eight  he  and 
Marston  became  part  of  the  stream  that  flowed  past  the 
time-keeper  in  the  back  entrance.  He  now  found  that 
the  rear  of  the  store  was  walled  off  for  the  employees, 
with  special  lunch  and  rest  and  cloak  rooms,  and  he  took 
the  employees'  elevator  to  the  seventh  floor.  A  long 
partition  made  a  sort  of  hallway  along  the  line  of  the 
buyers'  offices,  and  he  entered  this.  Here  a  glib  youth 
expounded  his  duties — that  he  was  to  meet  each  salesman, 
take  his  card  to  the  proper  buyer,  and  show  him  in ;  that 
he  was  to  add  up  a  column  of  figures  if  a  buyer  so  re 
quested,  or  get  a  box  of  matches;  that  he  was  to  run  er- 

58 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

rands  for  his  many  masters.  Oh  yes,  there  were  at  least 
thirty  buyers. 

In  plain  English,  then,  he  was  to  be  the  office-boy. 
Kirby's  heart  sickened.  He,  an  office-boy,  he  who  had 
come  to  the  city  to  ride  it  like  a  galloping  cavalry-man. 

He  waited  around  nervously  till  ten-thirty.  Salesmen 
began  to  arrive,  sleek  and  unctuous  individuals  who  used 
him  as  a  door-knob  on  the  buyers'  offices — gave  him  a 
twist,  and  passed  in.  A  great  crowd  came,  elbowing  him, 
making  it  impossible  to  select  the  new  from  the  old.  Thus 
came  luncheon.  He  ate  across  the  street  and  was  back  in 
half  an  hour.  Then  the  afternoon  was  infinitely  tedious, 
with  sleepy  offices  gathering  dust  and  nothing  to  do  but 
pace  up  and  down  or  sit  and  glance  surreptitiously  at  a 
copy  of  the  New  York  Commercial  and  the  Hotel  Register. 
Time  melted  into  eternity;  six  o'clock  came  and  went 
a  dozen  different  quarter-hours;  and  at  last  when  he  hur 
ried  with  the  eager  crowds  down  the  lamp-lit  streets  he 
felt  as  if  he  had  been  released  from  a  jail 

The  next  day  was  still  more  hateful.  He  rebelled 
against  the  routine ;  the  monster  that  seized  on  him  at  the 
rear  entrance  at  eight  sharp  and  swallowed  him  into 
abysmal  depths,  disgorging  him,  weary  and  exhausted  by 
sheer  idleness,  at  six  in  the  evening.  He  was  part  of  a 
senseless  clock-work,  a  cog.  He  had  his  place  now  in 
the  toiling  city,  but  got  no  joy  of  it.  It  was  cruel,  sense 
less,  impersonal.  It  treated  him  as  if  he  were  mere  hands 
without  heart  or  brain. 

One  buyer  sent  him  on  an  errand  to  a  floor-walker  on 
the  first  floor,  and  he  had  the  curious  shame  of  passing 
bareheaded  through  the  hatted  throng — a  flaunting  symbol 
of  his  servility  and  the  fact  that  he  was  less  than  the 
least  of  these.  He  felt,  too,  the  keen  difference  between 
himself  and  the  other  employees.  No  use  to  continue  the 
fiction  of  equality:  they  were  different;  they  had  not  his 
sensitive  high-mindedness,  his  emotional  richness. 

And  he  had  revealed  to  him  a  moral  breaking-down  that 

59 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

shocked  his  heart.  Going  up  and  down  the  elevators, 
he  heard  now  and  then  mere  boys  and  girls  flinging 
suggestive  jibes  at  each  other,  a  primitive  freedom  of 
language  he  was  unused  to.  Some  of  the  girls  seemed  to 
make  advances,  to  come  three-quarters  of  the  way.  At 
home  it  was  the  men  who  did  the  wooing  and  the  courting, 
and  this  reversal  of  relationships  threatened  to  cheapen  his 
natural  reverence  for  women.  So  shocked  was  he  that  he 
spoke  of  it  to  Marston  at  noon  in  the  cheap  and  flaring 
side-street  restaurant. 
,  "But  are  those  young  girls  like  that?"  Kirby  asked. 

"Some  are,  some  aren't,"  said  Marsten.  "There's  the 
straight  ones,  just  like  everywhere;  but  throw  a  lot  of 
young  folk  together  in  factory  or  shop,  especially  a  bunch 
of  girls  who  ain't  got  nothing  in  the  world,  and  Lord! 
what  happens  ?  Why,  the  older  women  pass  on  the  word 
to  the  younger,  and  tell  'em  how  to  have  a  good  time  safely. 
Can  you  blame  'em?  Look  at  the  life  they  lead.  Lord, 
most  of  'em  can't  marry;  they've  got  to  have  fun  at  least 
once  in  a  lifetime.  Miss  Wiggins,  the  millinery  buyer,  was 
right.  At  a  blow-out  she  got  up  and  said:  'Girls,  we 
might  as  well  get  a  little  bit  of  every  kind  of  a  good  time.' 
That's  the  stuff.  Why  shouldn't  they  ?" 

"And  what  did  the  girls  say?"  asked  Kirby. 

"Oh,  some  got  red  in  the  face;  but  most  of  'em  giggled. 
Gee!"  he  laughed,  "you're  the  innocent  child." 

And  he  went  on  to  tell  Kirby  of  his  relationship  with 
some  of  the  girls  until  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  the 
sidewalks  had  slid  back  and  disclosed  a  cavernous  sub 
terranean  world  of  bacchantic  people,  a  population  ruin 
ing  beneath  the  quiet  homes.  And  New  York  seemed 
terrible  again — pent  civilization  shattering  itself  on  the 
stones,  a  swirling  humanity  sinking  for  lack  of  work  into 
vagrancy  and  crime,  and  for  lack  of  love  into  free  abandon. 

Kirby  felt  stunned;  he  could  think  of  nothing  else 
that  afternoon.  And  then  came  a  new  experience. 
There  was  a  girl  employed  in  a  clerical  capacity  in  one 

60 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

of  the  buyers'  offices;  he  had  heard  her  called  "Bess," 
and  he  had  noted  casually  that  during  the  idle  hours 
she  would  come  out  and  glance  at  him  and  then  retire. 
Now,  at  four,  she  came  down  through  the  shadow 
and  light  of  the  open  doors,  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
pitiably  slender  and  frail,  a  mere  girl  of  about  seventeen. 
Her  yellowish-brown  hair  was  stuffed  out  with  puffs  and 
<(rats,"  her  face  was  faintly  powdered;  but  her  green 
dress  was  rather  shabby,  and  her  large  dark  eyes  shone 
with  a  starved  look.  She  seemed  a  desperate,  wild  little 
being. 

She  came  up,  trying  to  amble  nonchalantly,  in  the 
manner  of  the  shop-girls. 

"Got  any  elastics?"  she  asked.  She  meant  to  be  im 
pudent,  but  failed. 

Kirby  felt  a  sharp  pity  acting  like  an  astringent  on  his 
heart.  He  looked  at  her  softly. 

"No — but  can  I  find  some  for  you?" 

"Oh,  never  mind!    Say,  you're  new." 

"Yes — my  second  day." 

"Rotten,  ain't  it?" 

A  warmth  of  sympathetic  comradeliness  went  through 
him. 

"Yes,  it's  rotten." 

"Ever  go  out  at  night?" 

"A  little." 

She  came  nearer;  her  manner  was  distinctly  caressing. 

"You  ain't  never  worked  in  a  place  like  this  before?" 

He  smiled. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Oh,  you're  not  our  kind.  You're  a  gentleman,  Mr. 
Trask."  " 

His  eyes  became  misty. 

"No,  I'm  not.  I'm  just  a  poor  fellow  who  has  to  earn 
his  living." 

He  found  it  curiously  easy  to  talk  to  her. 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  "you're  a  gentleman.  I  know  what 

61 


THE  OLYMPIAN 

they're  like.  Lots  of  the  girls  here  have  gentleman 
friends." 

He  did  not  then  understand  the  term,  but  an  impor 
tant  fact  dawned  on  his  slow  mind.  Through  this  girl  he 
got  a  clue  to  the  starved  girlhood  of  the  city — manless, 
toiling  through  the  long  hours,  living  alone,  with  hearts 
starved  for  even  a  shabby  imitation  of  divine  love,  who 
lean  from  open  windows  into  the  summer  night  and  hear 
the  city  passing  by  and  see  the  sky-line  tremulous  with 
lights  and  behold  youth  swirling  in  the  glitter  at  the 
street  end;  the  spirit  of  youth  denied  its  undying  rights; 
joy,  laughing  joy,  and  sparkling  pleasure,  and  the  long 
night  of  love. 

He  noticed  the  sudden  mantling  of  her  cheeks  when  she 
said  "gentleman  friends."  She  glanced  away  with  girlish 
shame. 

"And  you  haven't  any?"  he  asked. 

"I?"  she  laughed,  strangely.     "No — not  exactly." 

She  seemed  to  be  waiting  as  if  for  an  invitation,  and 
on  a  generous  impulse  Kirby  spoke. 

"You  don't  get  out  much,  do  you?" 

"No." 

"Neither  do  I.     Let's  go  to  a  show  to-night." 

She  laughed,  giving  him  her  eyes  and  their  happy  radiance. 

"You  take  me  to-night,"  she  said;  "I'll  take  you 
to-morrow!" 

She  left  him  then,  and  he  stood  thrilled,  yet  perplexed 
at  this  new  entanglement.  Was  it  possible  that  he  would 
be  enmeshed  in  a  marriage  that  would  further  bind  him 
to  a  life  of  treadmill  poverty?  Or  what  did  Bess  mean? 
But  he  still  retained  enough  of  the  beautiful  generousness 
of  youth  to  feel  joy  in  the  thought  of  giving  this  girl 
joy.  And  he  tingled  with  the  romance  of  an  evening  with 
a  strange  girl  in  the  strange  city. 

They  met  at  the  rear  entrance  and  went  close  together 
through  the  happy,  swarming  streets.  The  evening  was 
sharp  and  cold  with  greenish  skies  over  the  black  sky-line 

62 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

and  the  clear  gold  street-lights  over  the  black  silhouettes 
of  the  crowd.  A  smoky  red  was  in  the  west.  Bess 
shivered  in  her  thin  coat.  They  went  into  a  plushy  red 
dining-room  on  Broadway  and  found  a  corner  table. 
Then  they  faced  each  other,  smiling  excitedly.  Looking 
at  her  face,  he  had  the  illusion  then  that  the  city's  nights 
were  gathered  in  her  eyes,  that  all  the  tremulous  beauty 
that  drifted  down  Broadway  through  the  canon  of  fire 
was  caught  and  made  intimate,  terribly  personal,  in  this 
thin,  flaming  girl.  Night  had  come,  and  had  offered  him 
a  woman. 

He  learned  then  about  herself;  how  she  had  come  from 
a  poor  family  in  Albany  and  lived  alone  on  West  Nine 
teenth  Street,  and  the  struggle  of  it. 

"There's  no  use,  Kirby,"  she  said.  "A  girl  can't  live 
on  six  a  week.  Two  goes  for  room;  and  out  of  the  four 
comes  clothes  and  food  and  fun  and  doctor  and  dentist. 
I've  got  to  walk  to  work;  and  I  eat  ten-cent  breakfasts 
and  lunches  and  spend  a  quarter  for  supper.  See  this 
hat?  It  meant  a  couple  of  weeks  without  breakfast. 
But  eating  and  rent  alone  come  to  over  five  dollars.  So 
I  do  my  own  washing." 

"Where?" 

"Oh,  in  my  room — at  night.  It  takes  ages  to  save  up 
for  a  pair  of  shoes." 

And  yet,  thought  Kirby,  she  worked  in  a  very  cara 
vansary  of  luxury;  daily  she  passed  up  and  down  among 
furs  and  silks,  silver  and  gold,  groceries  and  meats; 
passed  through  without  touching,  but  with  her  heart 
touching,  her  heart  reaching  out  and  finding  that  it 
remained  empty,  craving  hungrily.  "Do  you  blame 
them?"  Marston  had  asked.  At  least  Kirby  could  not 
blame  Bess. 

They  went  to  a  variety  show,  seated  together  in  the 
balcony,  and  now  and  then  she  leaned  against  him.  And 
the  glamor  of  the  stage  awoke  in  their  hearts  an  enchant 
ment  they  shared  together. 

63 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

The  streets  were  brilliant  with  pleasure-seekers  afoot 
and  the  whirl  of  carriages;  the  restaurants  asked  them  in, 
but  they  went  by  happily,  two  lost  in  an  uninhabited 
wilderness,  just  two  in  the  sharp  night  with  the  stars 
spangling  the  heights  of  blue-black  space. 

West  Nineteenth  Street  was  shoddy,  dark,  after  the 
radiant  avenue.  He  took  her  to  the  doorstep  of  the 
cheap  red-brick  house.  Then  he  paused. 

"But  you're  coming  up?"  she  whispered.  Her  voice 
was  almost  frightened. 

In  the  uncertain  rays  of  the  gas-lamp  beside  him  he  saw 
her  tremble  as  she  glanced  down  the  gray  flagging.  Not 
a  soul  was  in  sight  up  and  down  the  shadows  of  the  street. 

"You'll  want  something  to  drink,"  she  added. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  followed.  She  unlocked  the 
door,  and  the  hall-light  flickered;  they  passed  up  the 
creaking  stairs  to  the  top  floor,  and  in  the  darkness  she 
laughed  nervously  until  she  found  the  keyhole  of  her 
room.  Then  she  lit  the  gas,  disclosing  the  shabby  room, 
shabbier  than  Kirby's,  with  broken  pane  of  glass  and 
crumbling,  broken  walls. 

"Take  the  chair,"  she  murmured.  "I'll  sit  on  the 
bed." 

He  sat  down  awkwardly.  He  was  unused  to  sitting  in 
girls'  bedrooms,  and  he  felt  shy. 

Then  Bess  began  humming,  got  on  her  knees,  leaned 
under  the  bed,  and  drew  forth  a  bottle.  Kirby  felt  a  chill 
tingle  along  his  spine. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked.     "Whisky?" 

"No — it's  a  cocktail — ready  mixed." 

He  almost  choked. 

"Oh,  none  for  me." 

"Really?    Come,"  she  coaxed,  "just  a  little." 

"No.     Not  a  drop." 

She  gazed  up  at  him,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  glistening. 
She  was  still  on  her  knees. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.     "I  didn't  know." 

64 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

She  rose,  then,  as  if  bidding  him  good  night;  and  he  rose, 
too. 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 

Her  fingers  clasped  his  and  held  them.  They  stood 
close  together. 

"But  you  go  with  me  to-morrow,  Kirby?" 

"Yes — yes,"  he  murmured. 

"Good  night." 

His  heart  ached;  and  then  she  leaned,  drew  him  close, 
and  kissed  him. 

"Good  night,  Bess!"  he  said,  chokingly. 

And  out  he  went.  He  heard  her  dull  sob  as  he  went 
down  the  stairs.  Out  in  the  street  he  walked  as  if  he  were 
a  somnambulist.  It  seemed  as  if  the  city  had  been  a 
woman  taking  off  layer  after  layer  of  her  clothing  until 
now  she  stood  half  naked. 

"So  this  is  life,"  thought  Kirby. 

It  was  a  sober,  almost  a  sanctified  young  man  who  went 
to  bed  on  Twenty-sixth  Street  that  night. 

And  the  next  night  he  seemed  to  see  the  city  entirely 
nude.  For  Bess  took  him  to  a  dance-hall  on  Eighth 
Avenue — spangled,  glittering  Eighth  Avenue,  with  its 
saloons  and  halls  and  cheap  shops  gleaming  like  an  imita 
tion  Broadway,  a  jewel  of  paste,  and  the  young  girls 
passing  in  their  made-up  beauty  like  ten-dollar-a-week 
imitations  of  the  pictures  of  society  women  in  the  papers. 
Here  in  candy-shops  youth  was  drinking  ice-cream  soda, 
and  in  the  shadows  of  the  street  a  boy's  arm  went  round 
a  girl's  shoulder,  and  the  urge  of  the  race  became  audible 
in  laughter  and  twining  speech. 

The  dance-hall  was  a  flight  up,  and  very  large.  Several 
hundred  crowded  it — shop  and  factory  girls,  clerks  and 
young  salesmen  and  factory  hands.  A  small  orchestra 
played  the  lilting  street  tunes  of  the  day,  and  there  was  the 
sway  of  the  two-step  and  the  waltz.  Kirby  could  not 
dance  well  ;  he  did  the  best  he  could,  however,  for 
Bess. 

65 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Liquor  went  about  freely,  served  on  side-tables;  but 
Kirby  kept  to  soft  drinks,  though  Bess  had  a  cocktail. 

Then  toward  midnight  a  change  came  over  the  dancers : 
the  music  grew  more  exciting,  the  steps  flew  faster,  and  a 
new  dance  began. 

"That's  the  ' Shivers,' "  said  Bess.  "Come on,  I'll  show 
you."  Her  voice  had  changed;  instead  of  being  timid 
and  sweet,  it  now  was  brazen  and  loud. 

He  started  down  the  floor  with  her  and  then  said  he 
wanted  to  watch.  Bess  flew  off  with  another  man.  Kirby 
was  disgusted  with  the  dance,  which  seemed  vulgar,  but 
it  gave  way  to  another  called  the  "Nigger,"  and  this  to 
a  third;  and  Kirby  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  aghast, 
hardly  believing  his  eyes.  A  riot  of  dancing  began;  the 
music  was  working  on  the  raw  nerves  of  these  drudges, 
these  who  had  drudged  all  day  until  their  cravings  were 
fierce  and  unquenchable  and  who  needed  burning  stimu 
lants  to  refresh  them;  and  so  they  danced  until  they  got 
"inside"  the  music  and  gave  way  to  its  frenzy.  Girls 
fainted,  others  seemed  in  a  trance,  there  were  voices  sound 
ing  unspeakable  things,  and  then  in  the  pandemonium 
scenes  of  naked  shame.  It  was  like  the  religious  rites  of  a 
savage  tribe,  an  elemental  sex  dance. 

Kirby  got  a  glimpse  of  a  transformed  Bess,  a  wild  little 
panther,  drunken  and  bacchantic,  and  he  stumbled  down 
the  stairs  into  the  clean  air. 

He  felt  a  little  crazed.  So  this  was  civilization,  he 
thought,  this  that  drove  human  beings  into  horrible 
savagery!  And  this  was  life!  The  last  vestige  of  his 
innocence  seemed  swept  away,  the  last  remnant  of  his 
youth.  Now,  surely,  his  eyes  were  open;  he  saw  the 
thing  from  top  to  bottom,  the  mad,  fantastic  beast- 
struggle  that  seems  respectable  in  the  busy  streets. 

"Now  I  know  the  real  New  York,"  he  said  to  himself 
again. 

Yet  the  real  New  York  slept  sweetly  in  several  million 
rooms,  and  on  the  morrow  would  arise  refreshed  and 

66 


BESS:    A    SHOP-GIRL 

swarm  to  work,  the  men  to  the  mills  and  offices,  the  women 
to  the  kitchens  and  the  markets,  and  the  little  children 
crowding  at  the  gates  of  the  democratic  school — the  chil 
dren  pressing  against  the  gates  of  light.  In  their  faces 
was  the  real  New  York.  Kirby,  surely,  had  merely  seen 
New  York  of  the  night. 

But  his  soul  was  outraged.  He  could  have  wept  for 
the  lost  innocence  of  the  world.  And  he  knew  then  that 
his  job  was  unendurable.  Yet  in  a  little  while  he,  too, 
would  sink  with  these  submerged  creatures;  he,  too,  a 
victim  of  the  long,  dull  day,  the  crushing  pacing  of  the 
treadmill. 

The  next  morning  he  sought  Mr.  Spiegel. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  "there  is  really  a  future  for 
me  here?" 

"Do  you?"  asked  Mr.  Spiegel. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  other,  "for  a 
young  man  of  ability  and  ambition  there's  not  much  ahead. 
I'll  be  frank  with  you.  You  might  in  eight  or  nine  years 
be  a  floor- walker;  in  fifteen  or  twenty  a  buyer.  You're 
quite  right.  I  can  see  you're  up  to  something  bigger." 

So  Kirby  resigned  on  the  spot,  got  his  hat  and  coat,  went 
down  the  front  elevator,  and  mingled  with  the  hatted 
crowd,  again  a  free  American  citizen.  He  was  glowing 
with  happiness. 

"I'm  jobless  again,  thank  God!" 

But  he  was  not  the  same  Kirby  that  entered  Marshall's 
on  Monday  morning. 

6 


VII 

AN   EVENING   WITH   LADIES 

IRBY  now  grew  painfully  thin;  he  went  around  with 
jaw  set,  unsmiling,  and  gray  eyes  haunted  and  tragic. 

"Gee !  he's  the  regular  magic  kid,"  said  Cissie  Clay,  to  the 
elderly  translator.  "Now  you  see  him,  now  you  don't; 
up  and  down,  sweet  and  sour,  proud  and  humble.  First  I 
thought  he  was  homesick;  then  I  thought  he  struck  oil; 
then  I  knew  he  was  looking  for  a  job.  But  now — jilted, 
or  I'm  one  bad  guesser.  He's  Mystery;  and  my  heart 
is  his!" 

Miss  Peck  listened  attentively.  They  were  sitting  in  the 
brocade-covered  parlor  after  supper — Cissie  Clay  shining 
over  the  whole  sofa  with  her  superb  thirty-eight-inch  bust 
and  Miss  Peck  shrinking  on  a  rocker,  a  tiny  woman  with 
large  moon-face  and  thin,  gray  hair. 

"You  think,  then,"  said  Miss  Peck,  "that  it's  unre 
quited  love?" 

"Sure,"  said  Cissie,  who  liked  plain  English — "the  go-by, 
the  cold  shoulder,  the  Broadway  stare,  the  nix-kid,  the 
wrong  number.  Well,  I'd  black  his  shoes  for  him  and 
wash  his  face  and  comb  his  hair — did  you  ever  see  such 
hair  on  a  man,  Miss  Peck  ? — and  get  good  cookery  for  him 
— all  for  love.  Lord,  those  gray  lights  of  his!" 

"Unrequited  love,"  sighed  Miss  Peck.  "Who's  that  in 
the  hall?" 

It  was  a  young  man  looking  for  his  rubbers  under  the 
hat-rack.  Miss  Peck  arose  and  went  out. 

"Are  you  looking  for  something,  Mr.  Trask?" 

68 


AN    EVENING    WITH    LADIES 

"Rubbers,"  muttered  Kirby. 

"You're  not  going  out  in  this  rain?"  she  said,  sym 
pathetically. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  mumbled. 

"Mr.  Trask!"  She  leaned  near.  "Do  come  up — I 
want  to  read  something  to  you." 

He  wanted  desperately  to  say  no,  but  he  was  in  that 
critical,  emotional  condition  where  a  "no"  would  sound 
like  a  bull  blowing  a  bad  temper  through  his  nose;  he 
could  not  trust  himself  to  say  it.  So  he  followed  her 
meekly  up  the  stairs. 

Kirby  was  beginning  to  be  unhinged  by  the  officious 
kindliness  of  the  boarders;  their  stupid  bungling  merely 
made  him  lonelier.  And  as  for  glib  Marston,  he  and 
Kirby  spoke  not  to  each  other.  Marston  was  deeply 
offended,  for  Kirby  had  actually  left  the  job  which  Mar 
ston  had  provided  for  him.  So,  thought  Kirby,  that  ends 
Marston.  It  was  simply  unearthly  the  way  people  in 
New  York  leaped  from  nothingness  into  flesh  and  blood, 
stirred  one  up,  and  vanished — a  city  of  ghosts.  The  sales 
man  on  the  sleeper  was  no  more;  Si  was  gone;  Marston 
was  in  the  very  act  of  disappearing;  and  Bess  and  Mary, 
where  were  they?  These  two  young  women,  who  in  the 
space  of  a  few  days  had  overmastered  his  spirit  with 
profound  joy  and  grief. 

Most  of  the  night  before  he  had  lain  staring  at  the 
silvery  play  of  the  street-light  on  his  ceiling,  the  faint 
luminousness  in  the  lost  room,  too  aroused  to  sleep,  too 
shocked  to  desire  rest.  It  was  as  if  surgery  were  being 
performed  upon  him,  some  vivisector  sharply  knifing 
youth  out  of  his  heart.  His  mind  was  full  of  echoes  of 
the  Old  Testament — vanity,  vanity,  the  vale  of  tears,  a 
world  of  perdition  and  sin.  He  lay  on  the  midnight  bed 
breathing  with  pain  beneath  the  hidden  procession  of  the 
stars,  earth  under  him  passing  on  in  the  rank  and  file  of 
the  army  of  eternity.  For  his  young  man's  heart  had 
still  the  purity  to  ache  in  his  breast  with  the  tragedy  of 

69 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Bess — the  tragedy  of  young,  budding  beauty  smirched  and 
broken,  of  youth  with  its  rich  possibilities  wrecked  in  our 
swift  industrialism. 

Over  that  dance  of  Bacchantes,  that  dance  that  seemed 
to  go  footing  on  at  the  base  of  his  brain,  rose  only  one  face 
of  untroubled  sweetness,  the  face  of  Mary  Watts ;  and  for 
the  first  time  Kirby  was  puzzled  by  that  ancient  injustice 
that  crushes  a  Bess  and  shelters  a  Mary.  Thinking,  he 
sickened  of  the  city;  he  yearned  with  homesickness.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  must  die  if  he  found  no  quiet  hand  to 
soothe  him,  no  hushed  voice  to  pour  peace  into  his  heart. 
That  was  it;  no  one  here  understood  him. 

And  so  the  boarding-house  began  to  seem  very  hateful 
to  him.  This  heavy-handed  kindness  bruised  when  what 
he  needed  was  healing.  And  his  money  was  dwindling, 
and  there  was  no  hope  of  work.  He  was  surely  in  a 
desperate  plight. 

How,  then,  could  he  face  Miss  Peck  and  say  no  to  her 
without  storming?  What  he  desired  was  to  go  raging  up 
and  down  the  house  driving  the  amazed  boarders  before 
him. 

Miss  Peck  had  a  rear  room  on  the  third  floor.  She 
turned  up  the  gas  over  a  kitchen  table  white  with  manu 
scripts,  and  then  confronted  the  miserable  young  man. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  softly,  and  then,  drawing  from  the 
table  a  huge  bundle  of  papers  tied  with  a  pink  ribbon,  she 
heaved  a  sigh  of  sadness.  "Do  you  know,  Mr.  Trask, 
you're  the  first  young  man  I've  read  this  to." 

Not  knowing  what  was  coming,  Kirby  clutched  the 
arms  of  his  chair  and  tried  to  smile.  Miss  Peck  untied 
the  bundle,  straightened  the  papers. 

"It's  my  epic,"  she  said,  breathlessly. 

Kirby  stared  at  her. 

"On  India — '  Kalam  of  India,'  "  she  continued.  "My 
life-work — fifty  thousand  lines  in  blank  verse." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Kirby's  head.  What  was  she  up 
to  now?  Somehow  the  pathos  escaped  him;  at  least  he 

70 


AN    EVENING    WITH    LADIES 

did  not  know  that  a  thousand  shabby  New  York  boarding- 
houses  served  as  dusty  pigeon-holes  for  countless  master 
pieces — tragedies,  novels,  epics — writ  in  heart's  blood  by 
pitiable  incapables.  There  was  Miss  Peck  fading  before 
him,  after  years  of  seeing  India  in  blank  verse,  toiling 
alone  at  her  kitchen  table  to  add  dust  to  dust;  and  all 
that  Kirby  saw  was  a  tedious  old  maid  suddenly  become 
terrific. 

She  glanced  at  him  knowingly,  and  spoke  under  her 
breath. 

"It's  on  unrequited  love,  Mr.  Trask. ' '  Then  she  rose. 
"This  is  the  prologue: 

Bombay,  the  slumberous  city  by  the  sea, 
Bombay,  with  towers  and  turrets  in  the  sun." 

Kirby's  mind  soon  grew  blanker  than  the  verse,  save 
that  he  was  aware  of  quite  a  bombardment  of  Bombays. 
This  was  impossible;  his  heart  was  breaking. 

"Do  you  care  for  it?"  he  heard,  and  he  grew  ruthless. 

"Yes,  and  thank  you  for  reading  it!  Thank  you  very 
much!" 

And  he  stalked  out.  He  was  simply  starved  for  lack 
of  some  one  to  confide  in,  some  human  being  who  vibrated 
with  him  and  could  release  the  white  passion  of  his  heart. 

He  hurried  down  the  dim-lit  hall  to  the  upward-curving 
stairway,  but  the  front-room  door  was,  as  always,  half 
open,  and  he  met  the  gray  eyes  of  Mrs.  Waverley. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Trask?"  she  asked. 

Her  voice  had  the  magic  Southern  lilt,  like  little  waters 
purling  over  stones  in  sunlight.  Its  charm  pervaded  him, 
and  in  a  flash  he  remembered  how  this  woman  had  been 
quietly  watching  him. 

"Yes,  it's  I,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  softly. 

"Come  in— do." 

He  entered.     A  folding-bed  stood  closed  against  one 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

wall,  covered  with  drapery,  and  to  fight  off  the  chill  a  little 
gas-stove  burned  cheerfully  beside  the  unused  grate.  The 
room  was  exceptionally  neat  and  cozy,  charged  with 
' '  atmosphere, ' '  with  vital  personality.  The  furniture,  too, 
seemed  very  comfortable. 

Beside  a  center-table  on  which  stood  a  reading-lamp, 
Mrs.  Waverley  sat  in  a  rocker,  a  book  on  her  lap.  The 
lamp-light  and  the  little  flare  from  the  stove  both  played 
upon  her,  softening  her.  Kirby  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  she  wore  glasses,  but  her  gray  eyes  shone  through 
so  liquidly  that  they  seemed  mere  shadows. 

"You  must  pay  me  a  little  visit,"  she  said.  Again  he 
was  aware  that  her  voice  was  gentle  and  low  and  cool,  and 
he  felt  as  if  scales  were  dropping  from  him.  "Draw  up 
that  arm-chair;  it  will  just  fit  you." 

His  lips  quivered  as  he  sank  deep  in  the  cushions,  close 
to  her.  Then  he  heard  the  rain  slashing  the  windows 
and  felt  warm  and  snug. 

She  smiled. 

"We  out-of-town  people  ought  to  get  to  know  each 
other.  I  have  to  read  in  the  evening — for  lack  of  com 
pany.  And  that's  not  easy  after  a  day  of  teaching  and 
correcting  papers." 

A  feeling  of  ease  began  to  soften  him.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him,  her  clear  eyes  resting  on  his,  and  he 
knew  that  she  read  him  through  and  that  she  understood. 
He  vaguely  smiled  back;  and  for  the  first  time  in  New 
York  the  unconscious  intimacy  of  home  returned  to  him. 
He  could  tell  this  woman  all;  she  knew. 

"You've  been  looking  for  work,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured. 

"And  found  none?" 

Tears  of  self-pity  dimmed  his  eyes. 

"I  worked  three  days  at  Marshall's." 

She  laughed  softly. 

"That  was  hardly  the  place  for  you,  was  it?" 

The  idea  of  this  stocky-headed  young  man  cramping 

72 


AN    EVENING    WITH    LADIES 

his  nebulous  volcanic  temperament  into  a  department 
store  was  diverting.  He  caught  the  lovely  amusement 
of  it  all,  and  now  genuinely  smiled. 

"I  could  have  blown  up  the  place!"  he  said. 

' '  Indeed !' '  she  laughed.  ' '  You're  quite  capable  of  that ! 
But  have  you  tried  Atwood's?" 

"No.     Who  are  they?" 

She  arose  and  fetched  the  morning  paper,  then  opened 
it  to  the  advertising  pages.  Then  she  smiled  at  him. 

"It  sounds  too  American  to  be  anything  but  a  fraud. 
But  I  know  a  young  man  who  got  work  through  them. 
Here  it  is:  'Atwood's,  Brain  Brokers.  We  Find  the 
Right  Man  for  the  Right  Job.  Are  You  Hiring  Brains? 
Come  to  Us.'  Isn't  that  delightful?" 

He  laughed  with  pleasure. 

"What  must  I  do?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  "there's  a  five-dollar  fee,  and  then  a 
percentage  of  the  first  year's  salary.  But  it's  worth  try 
ing,  isn't  it?" 

He  noticed  then  her  delicate  hands  and  the  wedding- 
ring  on  the  left,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  a  widow  and  yet 
remained  clear-eyed  and  strong-fibered  affected  him  pro 
foundly.  All  his  inmost  thoughts  found  expression,  for 
he  knew  then  that  she  would  understand  the  worst  in 
him  as  she  divined  the  best  in  him.  He  told  her  of  his 
migration  from  the  West,  his  hunt  for  work,  his  evening 
at  the  Watts',  his  job  at  Marshall's,  and  glanced  even 
with  delicate  slants  at  the  experience  with  Bess. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  finished,  and  he  felt 
then  as  if  he  had  cleansed  the  wounds  that  were  festering 
within  him. 

" It's  not  a  bad  start,"  she  said.  "You've  got  to  know 
life  somehow.  Now  there's  just  one  thing  to  do,  I  take 
it.  Get  what  work  you  can  to  tide  you  over,  give  you  a 
basis  of  livelihood,  and  grope  your  way  to  something  else." 

They  rose,  and  she  drew  near  and  placed  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders. 

73 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"Kirby,"  she  said,  simply,  "I'm  glad  you  came." 

His  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 

"So  am  I." 

They  stood  so  a  moment,  and  her  gentle  spirit  seemed 
to  envelop  him  like  a  spring  rain-cloud ;  he  felt  the  sweetest 
joy  faintly  stirring  through  him.  Her  alien  and  exotic 
charm  had  not  been  spoiled  by  the  city;  it  seemed  to  re 
tain  something  of  sunny  woodland  and  silent  meadow. 
He  felt  caught  up  in  arms  that  caressed,  in  a  spirit  that 
released  his  own  and  set  him  free. 

"Goodnight!" 

"Goodnight!" 

She  laughed  again,  and  he  turned  and  went  up.  Long 
and  healing  sleep  came  to  him. 


VIII 

THE   BRAIN-BROKERS 

/^VERNIGHT  the  rain  changed  to  sleet,  and  the  next 
\^J  morning  the  pavements  were  coated  with  thin  ice 
and  the  world  was  dark.  Kirby  boarded  a  lighted  car  that 
seemed  to  bump  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  brown  dinginess 
of  shadow-lost  buildings.  Getting  off  at  Duane  Street 
he  found  Broadway  sluffing  and  slipping  by,  horses  fall 
ing  in  the  gutter,  and  umbrellas  zigzagging  over  curveting 
forms.  He  pushed  his  way  into  the  twelve-story  Miller 
Building,  treading  over  the  muddy  shoe-prints  on  the 
marble  floor,  and  took  the  elevator  to  the  fourth  story. 

Opening  a  door  marked  "Atwood's"  he  immediately 
found  himself  running  a  gantlet  of  young  American 
braves.  For  the  entrance-hall,  lighted,  was  lined  on 
either  side  by  bright  young  men  who  took  his  measure 
visibly  and  audibly ;  as,  pulling  a  neighbor's  sleeve,  "Soft !" 
or,  heads  together,  "Looks  easy,"  or,  addressed  to  space, 
"Green."  Kirby  was  depressed.  By  the  time  a  brisk 
boy  stopped  him  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  he  was  ner 
vously  on  edge. 

"Write  yer  name  on  this  slip." 

Kirby  did  so. 

"Hold  still  a  minute;   I'll  fix  yer." 

In  thirty  seconds  a  private-office  door  was  opened  for 
him,  and  he  stepped  into  the  electric-lit  presence  of  a 
Mr.  Cobb,  a  smart  and  fiery  interviewer.  He  seemed  full 
of  springs,  as  if  he  could  leap  up  and  down  with  smiling 
strenuosity. 

75 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Bad  morning,  Mr. — ah — ah" — he  consulted  the  in 
formation  slip — "Trask.  You  show  the  proper  enter 
prise  in  venturing  out  in  such  weather. ' '  He  pounded  the 
desk  emphatically  with  his  fist.  "It  spells  Success.  Big 
Business  is  looking  for  Push  and  Pluck.  For  Brain  and 
Brawn.  The  Get-There-and-Get-Back  Booster.  If  you 
are  the  right  sort  we  can  help  you;  if  not,  you  are  wast 
ing  your  time  here." 

Now  Kirby  knew  that  Mr.  Cobb  was  pulling  the  usual 
string  of  pearls  from  his  conjuror's  mouth,  and  yet  he 
began  to  flush  with  excitement.  Suddenly  Mr.  Cobb  eyed 
him  and  sprang,  as  it  were,  upon  him. 

"What's  your  specialty?" 

"I've  been  a  reporter." 

Mr.  Cobb  seized  a  pencil  and  made  entries. 

"Where?" 

"Trent,  Iowa." 

"Oh,  new  here?" 

"Yes." 

"College  graduate?" 

"Trent  Academy." 

"References?" 

Kirby  spoke  nervously. 

"I  have  a  letter  from  the  head  of  the  academy,  and. 
from  the  editor  of  the  paper,  and  from  the  head  of  our 
First  National  Bank." 

"Good.  Very  good.  You  must  put  these  in  our 
possession.  Now  what  are  you  looking  for?  Remember 
that  Big  Business  can  get  cheap  help — all  it  wants;  but 
Big  Business  depends  for  its  continuance  and  expansion  on 
Brains,  and  Brains  are  at  a  premium,  Mr. — ah — ah — 
Trask.  It  is  our  business  to  find  the  Brains,  to  put  the 
right  Man  in  the  right  Place.  What  is  your  place?" 

"Something  with  a  future;  I'd  be  willing  to  start  on 
twelve  a  week." 

"You  don't  know  shorthand,  do  you?" 

"No." 

76 


THE    BRAIN-BROKERS 

"A  pity,  Mr.  Trask.  I  have  a  rare  opening;  a  private 
secretaryship  to  J.  J.  Harrington.  You  know  J.  J., 
don't  you?" 

Of '  course  everybody  knew  J.  J.,  for  Harrington's 
Magazine  was  the  first  in  a  new  field — the  popular  ten- 
cent  monthly.  This  was  Mr.  Cobb's  star  play,  to  dazzle 
the  new-comer,  for  J.  J.'s  secretaries  lasted  about  a 
month,  the  demand  was  perpetual,  and  Mr.  Cobb  never 
lacked  a  rare  opening  for  his  young  men.  Kirby  was 
impressed.  He  nodded. 

"A  great  American,"  continued  Mr.  Cobb,  "one  of  the 
chiefs  of  our  commerce.  Not  only  the  proprietor  of  the 
most  popular  magazine  in  the  United  States,  but  head  of 
the  New  Storage  Battery  Street  Car  Company  and  the 
Harmon  Airship  Company.  He  is  growing  like  a  tropical 
plant,  and  the  young  man  who  associates  himself  with 
J.  J.  Harrington  to-day  will  be  a  Captain  of  Industry 
to-morrow — if  he  has  Brains  and  Applies  Himself!  Too 
bad  you  aren't  a  stenographer.  Oh,  well !  Perhaps  some 
thing  else.  We  have  openings  in  every  direction."  And 
just  as  Kirby  got  vistas  of  gigantic  industrialism  with 
step-ladders  to  the  top  lofts  the  contract  was  pushed  under 
his  nose..  "Sign  here,"  said  Mr.  Cobb. 

It  seemed  a  privilege  to  sign  away  ten  per  cent,  of  the 
first  year's  salary  and  to  pay  the  five-dollar  fee.  Where 
upon  Kirby  was  ushered  into  the  hall  and  told  to  wait, 
that  he  might  not  miss  the  Opportunity  when  it  came  along. 

So  he  took  his  place  among  the  young  men,  and  doggedly 
he  held  it  till  lunch-time,  and  then  after  lunch  until  the 
office-boy  briskly  put  him  out. 

"Say,  you,  there's  nothing  doing.  Gee!  some  folks  is 
regular  plants." 

Two  more  such  days  followed,  and  he  began  to  glow 
with  anger.  Thrice  he  asked  for  Mr.  Cobb  and  was  told 
bruskly  that  Mr.  Cobb  was  busy ;  and,  finally,  waylaying 
him  in  the  hall  at  lunch-time,  Kirby  was  met  with  an 
indignant  stare  and  a  sharp: 

77 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"You  surprise  me.     Patience,  young  man,  patience." 

He  began  to  have  a  feeling  that  he  had  been  duped, 
that  the  brain-brokers  had  been  chiefly  concerned  in 
getting  the  five-dollar  fee  and  had  no  intention  of  finding 
a  place  for  him.  For  not  only  was  there  a  palpable 
scarcity  of  jobs,  but  all  the  opportunities  went  to  quite 
a  different  type  of  young  men.  Once  again  Kirby  felt 
almost  a  class-difference  in  clothes  and  manners.  For 
these  others  were  the  Ready-Made  Young  Men,  the  youth 
of  the  land  who  heeded  the  uplifted  forefinger  of  the 
Captain  of  Industry  in  the  advertisement,  "You  Can 
Succeed";  they  had  about  them  an  air  of  success,  the 
alert  eye  and  the  strenuous  manner,  the  polished  shoes 
and  fresh  shirt,  the  shaved  face  and  the  close-cut  hair. 
Their  brisk  exteriors  seemed  to  be  saying:  "See,  we  are 
subservient,  ready,  bright,  cheerful;  we  believe  in  'Smile,' 
'Do  it  now,'  'I'm  a-hustling,'  'Nothing  succeeds  like  the 
appearance  of  success.' "  Who  could  resist  these  products 
of  the  commercial  school  and  the  correspondence  course — 
these  cheerful  Americans? 

Yet  Kirby  found,  through  chance  words  with  this  man 
and  that,  that  many  of  these  fellows  kept  bobbing  up 
every  few  months  with  the  same  eternal  smile,  after  being 
fired  from  place  after  place — bright  failures  that  briskly 
made  a  circuit  of  the  low  places,  shedding  an  empty 
radiance  on  an  office  and  failing  with  a  cheer  that  made 
their  exits  like  promotions.  Thin  Kirby  and  a  stout 
young  man  named  Latham  sat  there  like  dark  spots  on 
the  sun  while  these  brilliant  evanescent  flames  played 
about  them. 

Luckily  a  great  snow-storm  swept  the  city  on  the  third 
afternoon;  and  these  young  men,  thinking  that  nothing 
could  develop,  stayed  at  home.  Kirby  was  quite  alone 
in  the  hall,  desolated  by  the  blind  rush  of  snowflakes  on 
the  windows. 

All  at  once  Mr.  Cobb  appeared,  glancing  eagerly.  His 
gaze  rested  on  Kirby  with  exasperated  disappointment, 

78 


THE    BRAIN-BROKERS 

and  he  went  back  to  his  office.  A  moment  later  he  re 
appeared,  desperately  scratching  his  head. 

"Say,"  he  began,  "there's  a  hurry  call  here.  You're 
not  just  the  man — but,  say,  it's  a  clerk  job  down  the 
Continental  Express  Company,  Broadway,  below  Wall. 
Say,  how  about  making  a  bluff  at  it?" 

Kirby  rose  stiffly,  his  hands  nervously  eager  to  throttle 
the  brain-broker. 

"What  does  it  pay?"  he  asked,  suspiciously. 

"Oh,  ask  twelve  to  start.  Here's  the  slip.  'Phone  if 
you  get  it.  If  you  don't,  say  account  the  storm  we're 
short,  but  to-morrow  we'll  send  'em  a  crackerjack." 

Kirby  thought  to  himself,  "I'll  get  that  job  to  spite 
you,"  and  went  out  into  the  whirling  whiteness  of  Broad 
way.  But  few  people  were  on  the  street,  bumping  each 
other  in  their  hurry.  The  great  snow-sweeper  went  rasp 
ing  along  the  car-tracks,  blowing  clouds  of  snow  like  a 
buffalo  snorting  in  the  dust;  truckmen  sat  aloft  their 
trucks  in  oil-suits;  the  shop  windows  were  white  with 
mist  and  stringy  with  clots.  The  winds  lifted  at  the 
corners,  piling  the  snow  in  drifts,  and  Kirby  had  hard 
footing  down  the  long  stretch  to  Wall  Street.  There 
where  the  skyscrapers  looked  down  on  the  dwarfed 
steeple  of  Trinity  Church,  as  if  our  modern  industrial 
civilization  here  showed  that  it  had  outgrown  the  creed 
of  two  thousand  years,  snow  was  blowing  about  the 
graves;  and  Kirby,  glancing  through  the  iron  fencing, 
felt  that  his  own  great  hopes  were  buried  with  the 
dead. 

A  little  further  on,  between  two  tall  modern  towers, 
stood  the  express  company's  five-story  building,  old, 
brownstone,  faded,  but  brilliantly  gas-lit.  Kirby  tramped 
over  the  sawdust  of  the  first  floor  and  climbed  the  tall 
stairway  to  the  third  floor. 

He  pushed  open  a  dim  glass  door  and  entered  a  middle 
office,  with  dark  air-shaft  and  gas-jets  burning.  Steam- 
heat  bubbled  joyously  from  a  radiator,  and  the  room 

79 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

smelt  strongly  of  mop  and  the  brown  slop-water  of  the 
scrubwomen.  An  old  clerk  was  seated  next  the  door. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Bradsley,"  said  Kirby. 

The  old  clerk  ran  his  pen  through  his  white  hair  and 
spoke  in  a  piping  voice. 

"Through  that  door  there." 

Kirby  opened  a  door  into  a  large  rear  room.  Fifty 
men  were  standing  or  sitting  at  desks,  each  beneath 
a  shaded  electric-bulb,  scratching  at  ledgers  and  sheets 
of  paper;  and  in  the  corner,  beside  the  snow-dimmed  pane, 
sat  the  chief  clerk,  dominating  all.  Kirby  approached 
him. 

Bradsley  was  a  big,  bluff,  half-drunken  man,  with  large 
mustaches  dirty  at  the  ends;  egg  and  ink  spots  were  on 
his  cheap  coat;  and  he  had  a  soft  and  rotund  belly — like 
an  exaggerated  gnome  astride  a  beer-barrel.  Bradsley 
was  jovial;  he  took  the  slip,  bade  Kirby  be  seated. 

"Ever  clerked  before?"  His  voice  seemed  foggy  with 
liquor,  and  Kirby  got  an  alcoholic  whiff. 

Then  Kirby  lied  cheerfully,  being  now  somewhat 
seasoned  in  trade. 

"Oh  yes,  I  clerked  on  a  newspaper  in  Iowa." 

Bradsley's  eyes  lit  up. 

"Iowa,  hey?    You  hail  from  there?" 

"Yes." 

"What  town?" 

"Trent." 

"God  damn  it,  do  you  know  Clayton  Jones  there?" 

Kirby  felt  a  thrill  of  apprehension;  his  lie  might  find 
him  out. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured. 

"Man,  he's  my  wife's  second  cousin!  And  I — why,  I 
come  from  Ames.  Welcome,  fellow  Westerner!" 

Kirby  was  engaged  on  the  spot,  and  finished  out  the  day 
at  a  standing-desk,  with  a  high  stool,  in  the  office  he  had 
first  entered.  His  duty  "was  to  transcribe  figures  in  red 
ink  from  one  ledger  to  another,  and  his  salary  was  twelve 

80 


THE    BRAIN-BROKERS 

to  begin.  He  felt  thankful  and  at  the  same  time  tri 
umphant.  He  telephoned  Mr.  Cobb: 

"I  secured  the  position  easily." 

"Amazing,"  said  the  resilient  brain-broker.  "It's  a 
Start  in  Life.  You  can  pay  us  the  sixty  dollars  commission 
cash,  or  we'll  take  a  six-per-cent.  note  for  sixty  days." 

The  last  word  was  decidedly  with  the  brain-broker. 

A  gong  sounded  at  five,  and  at  once  like  the  heart  that 
fails  a  thousand  pens  dropped  from  hands  in  the  five 
floors  of  the  building,  a  hum  of  gaiety  hit  the  walls  of  the 
hall  and  rebounded  up  and  down  the  corridors  and  the 
stairs,  and  Kirby  was  part  of  a  downward-dropping  cas 
cade  of  human  jocularity.  He  .felt  gay,  triumphant, 
secure.  Little  voices  sang  in  his  ear:  "Now  you're  in 
at  last.  Now  you  have  a  warm  berth.  Now  you  can 
live.  No  more  hunting;  no  more  underworld.  You 
belong.  New  York  absorbs  you." 

He  went  out,  a  five-foot-nine  slip  of  the  resistless  crowd. 
The  heavens  were  clearing,  letting  through  a  waning  moon 
that  peered  crookedly  over  the  black  top  of  a  skyscraper, 
a  ragged  silver  passing  by;  and  the  people  went  harden 
ing  the  snow  beneath  them  and  loosing  a  mist  of  breath 
up  through  the  lamp-light.  Kirby  wedged  into  the 
jammed  car,  warm  with  human  beings,  and  it  was  wonder 
ful  to  know  himself  alive. 

Standing  there,  his  gray  eyes  sparkling  among  the  warm 
faces,  he  passed  with  the  car  through  a  momentous  half- 
hour  of  life.  Now  the  wonder  of  the  work-freed  city 
going  home  was  his;  he  had  crept  inside;  he  had  been 
accepted  at  last  and  had  his  place;  supper  waited  for  him 
and  the  freedom  of  the  night,  and  no  toil  till  the  morrow. 
A  weight  of  worry  was  lifted  from  his  mind.  It  was  as  if 
for  weeks  he  had  been  battering  despairingly  at  the  gates 
of  the  city,  and  that  now  the  gates  had  opened  and  he  had 
entered. 

Descending  at  Twenty-sixth  Street,  he  hurried  west, 
almost  sprinting.  The  march  of  men  and  women  under 

81 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

the  lights  suggested  comrades;  were  they  not  all  hastening 
to  the  arms  of  the  women  or  the  faces  of  the  children? 
He  saw  the  glow  in  kitchen  and  parlor  window,  and  he 
loved  the  busy  evening  life — happy  stir  at  stoves,  bright 
circles  of  the  tables.  It  now  belonged  to  him. 

Excitedly  he  climbed  the  stairs.  The  door  of  the  third- 
floor  front  was  open,  and  in  the  rocker,  lamp-flooded,  sat 
Mrs.  Waverley.  She  looked  up  eagerly.  She  saw  his 
bright  face.  Her  own  lit  up. 

"Yes,"  he  cried,  with  a  deep  burst  of  feeling,  "I've 
got  it!" 

"A  job?" 

"Twelve  a  week — Continental  Express  Company — 
clerking." 

It  was  glorious  to  have  some  one  waiting  to  hear  this. 

"Oh,  good!"  she  cried,  and  rose  from  the  rocker. 
"Kirby,"  she  said,  "we've  got  to  celebrate!" 

So  they  went  out  and  had  an  amazing  table  d'hote 
dinner  in  a  West  Twenty-fifth  Street  Italian  restaurant, 
sixty  cents  apiece,  with  red  or  white  wine,  and  a  glittering 
rush  of  food — oysters  and  soup,  perfect  rectangles  carved 
by  some  uncanny  process  from  curved  fishes,  slices  of  beef, 
halves  of  spring  chicken,  withered  salad  sprinkled  with 
suspicious-looking  dressing,  ice-cream  and  demi-tasse  of 
coffee.  They  ate  straight  through  with  deliberate  joy, 
and  the  wine  warmed  them  on.  All  about  them  sat  a 
queer  people:  the  emptyings  of  studios  whose  waking 
seemed  to  come  with  the  night — young  men  and  women 
morbidly  absorbed  in  each  other;  all  those  whom  need 
only  has  shunted  away  from  steep-priced  Fifth  Avenue. 

And  back  in  Mrs.  Waverley's  room  they  sat  late,  dilating 
on  the  future.  And  when  Kirby  got  up  to  go  Mrs. 
Waverley  took  his  hand  in  both  of  hers  and  said: 

"You've  started  in  now,  and,  oh,  I  expect  much  of  you." 
(How  like  what  Janice  had  said;  how  different  in  its  im 
plications  with  the  morrow's  work  hanging  over  his  head !) 
"The  job's  not  your  size,  Kirby — we'll  neither  of  us  forget 

82 


THE    BRAIN-BROKERS 

that.  But  it's  a  start;  you've  gotten  in.  Now  stay  in, 
and  feel  your  way  to  something  better.  You're  going  to 
do  it,  aren't  you?" 

His  eyes  glistened;  his  voice  deepened. 

"I  am,"  he  said,  and  hurried  to  his  room.  Before 
lighting  the  gas  he  glanced  out  at  the  levels  of  snow,  the 
lined  window-sills,  and,  over  all,  the  drop  of  the  jagged 
moon,  silver  among  the  bristling  stars.  Then,  breathing 
deep  of  happiness,  he  turned  back,  flooded  the  room  with 
light,  and  did  a  dramatic  and  significant  thing — he  set  his 
alarm-clock  for  seven.  Without  knowing  it,  by  that 
small  action  he  brought  to  an  end  his  initiation  into  that 
civilization  that  centers  in  New  York;  by  that  he  irrevo 
cably  merged  himself  with  the  life  of  the  city.  He  had 
become  one  of  the  drudges. 

7 


IX 

THE   YOUNG   NEW-YORKER 

KLRBY  became  part  of  a  new  routine  now — it  was: 
up  at  seven;  breakfast  at  seven-thirty;  the  ride  in 
the  packed  cars  at  eight;  the  march  into  the  express 
building  with  a  thousand  other  men  at  eight-thirty;  and 
then  the  long  day.  At  first  he  rebelled;  the  hours  were 
intolerable,  the  childish  work  unendurable;  he  would 
slip  from  high  stool  to  floor  and  on  again,  with  the  back 
of  his  head  aware  of  the  clock  on  the  wall.  He  would 
pause  to  dream  or  to  sharpen  pencils.  He  would  pour 
out  his  troubles  to  Mrs.  Waverley  in  the  evening.  But 
gradually  he  accepted  his  lot,  and  found  his  work  so 
mechanical  that  he  could  trust  it  to  his  hands  and  leave 
his  mind  free  for  day-dreaming.  It  was  as  if  the  smooth 
belting  of  business  had  taken  him  on  like  a  grain  of  dust 
and  had  traveled  along  over  the  wheels  with  easy  and 
endless  stride,  bearing  him  round  and  round  with  the 
dropping  days  on  and  on  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

The  job  was  petty,  and  hence  his  gradual  acceptance  of 
it  was  perilous.  For  accepted  pettiness  always  made 
Kirby  indifferent  and  listless,  quenched  his  ambition, 
stopped  his  growth.  He  was  really  in  danger  of  being  a 
clerk  all  his  life. 

Nothing  stirred  him;  not  Mrs.  Waverley,  not  the 
memory  of  what  Trent  expected  of  him,  not  his  glowing 
expectations  of  greatness  through  Jordan  Watts.  In  a 
way  he  accepted  Bradsley's  favorite  phrase:  "Time  heals 
all  wounds."  Time  had  certainly  healed  his  wounded 

84 


THE    YOUNG    NEW-YORKER 

pride.  He  had  become  a  mere  unit  among  the  millions 
of  drudges,  and  he  came  and  went  dully.  It  was  as  if  his 
spirit  slept  within  him. 

Mrs.  Waverley  would  say  "Kirby,  are  you  looking 
around  you?  Do  you  hear  of  nothing?" 

"Oh,"  he  would  reply,  nonchalantly,  "something  will 
come  my  way." 

He  had  no  faith  in  this,  however,  but  he  didn't  care. 
All  came  to  death  in  the  end;  why  should  he  strive? 
There  seemed  no  reason  for  ambition.  During  the  year  he 
was  raised  to  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  and  now  he  felt  inde 
pendent,  able  to  keep  decently  clothed,  housed,  fed,  and 
amused;  why  should  he  break  up  this  easy  security? 
He  knew  only  too  well  the  bitterness  of  being  an  outsider. 
He  would  never  be  one  again.  In  fact,  he  now  was  in  a 
mental  state  equivalent  to  that  of  his  last  two  years  in 
Trent — careless  and  indolent  activity  with  no  thought  of 
the  future.  His  appearance  changed  again;  more  neat 
ness  in  clothes  and  manners,  less  life  in  the  eyes,  and  no 
large  emotions.  A  certain  exterior  hardening  now  showed, 
as  if  he  were  acquiring  a  protective  shell.  He  was  ex 
actly  like  thousands  of  other  young  men  in  New  York. 

The  months  passed.  Spring  came  with  Sunday  excur 
sions  with  Marston,  and  sometimes  with  Mrs.  Waverley; 
summer  followed,  with  Mrs.  Waverley  gone  back  to 
Kentucky  for  a  vacation;  dull  days,  hot  nights,  during 
which  Kirby  learned  to  dissipate  with  one  of  his  fellow- 
clerks;  autumn  and  Mrs.  Waverley  returned  together. 
There  was  only  the  two-weeks  break  of  his  vacation,  and 
this  he  spent  in  Asbury  Park,  loafing  on  the  sands  and 
bathing  in  the  sea.  And  all  this  time  Kirby  was  learning 
to  know  New  York,  her  seasonal  moods — winter,  when  she 
was  keen  and  cold,  gemming  her  white  forehead  with  stars ; 
spring,  when  she  pinned  wild  roses  on  her  bosom  and 
breathed  with  restless  sweetness  down  her  cool  alleys;  sum 
mer,  when  her  eyes  glistened  with  ardent  midnight  passion 
and  her  hair  glimmered  with  the  lightnings  and  the  northern 

85 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

lights;  autumn,  when  she  seemed  to  swing  to  and  fro 
in  the  gale,  tossing  up  and  catching  reddened  leaves,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  and  singing  her  children  back  to  work. 
And  all  the  time  the  great  sea  stirring  in  her  heart.  Kirby 
began  to  know  it  all  and  accept  it  as  he  accepted  his  work. 
It  was  one  of  the  commonplaces  of  his  life.  He  did  not 
see  the  crowds  with  thousands  of  eyes  passing  him;  no 
spectacles  of  gigantic  enterprise  suggested  a  city  hung  in 
the  skies.  He  had  worn  down  a  few  pathways  through  the 
city,  and  kept  to  these,  shuttling  from  home  to  work 
and  back  again  and  threading  his  favorite  section  of 
Broadway. 

However,  several  events  flashed  out  like  scarlet  in  the 
gray  procession  of  the  days.  Late  one  winter  afternoon 
Bradsley  sent  him  on  an  errand  to  the  basement.  This 
was  the  shipping-department,  with  platforms  stacked 
with  boxes  and  crates,  opening  out  on  the  lower  rear  street 
to  the  west  of  Broadway;  the  huge  express  wagons  backed 
into  this,  the  steaming  horses  stood  blanketed,  and  there 
the  bitter,  husky  drivers  sweated  and  lifted  and  shoved 
and  cursed  in  the  winter  gloom  under  the  warm  offices. 
Passing  through  he  saw  that  these  great  out-door  fellows 
glanced  at  him  contemptuously,  as  if  they  scorned  clerks, 
and  he  felt  subtly  that  scratching  mechanically  with  a  pen 
might  not  be  man-size  work.  It  was  a  glimpse  into  a 
different  world — the  world  of  hard  labor,  of  severe  poverty ; 
the  world  of  mine  and  mill  and  the  city  street,  where  the 
dangerous  and  dirty  work  of  civilization  is  done.  Under 
his  light  and  sheltered  work  were  these  bitter,  dark 
foundations.  It  gave  him  a  few  days  of  uneasiness. 

Of  a  different  sort  was  another  event.  It  was  the  be 
ginning  of  the  Mary  myth.  For,  glancing  through  the 
picture  supplement  of  a  Sunday  paper,  he  found  a  page  of 
"Rich  Women  in  Settlement  Work";  among  them  was  a 
poorly  reproduced  photograph  of  Mary.  This  he  cut  out 
and  kept  in  his  pocketbook  and  often  surreptitiously 
while  he  clerked,  and  nearly  every  night  before  retiring, 

86 


THE    YOUNG    NEW-YORKER 

he  took  this  out  and  wove  a  myth  about  it.  He  used  the 
faded  picture  as  a  model  from  which  his  mind  painted 
woman.  Mary's  beauty  thus  increased  from  day  to  day, 
till  she  was  a  creature  of  witchery  and  grace,  the  dream  of 
ardent  loveliness  that  haunted  him.  He  thought  of  her 
coming  into  the  office  by  some  divine  accident  and  glancing 
at  him  with  tender  pity  and  wistfulness;  or,  walking  in 
Central  Park  when  the  long  line  of  carriages  sweeps  up 
and  down  loaded  with  the  filled  gowns  of  the  city,  he  ex 
pected  to  see  her  eyes  lift  and  gaze  yearningly  into  his  own. 
Or  perchance  late  at  night  he  would  pass  up  Fifth  Avenue 
and  see  fire  darting  from  a  window  of  the  Watts  mansion ; 
whereupon  he  would  scale  the  wall,  smash  a  pane  of  glass, 
dash  through  the  dead  house  crying ' '  Mary !  Mary !"  find  her 
lying  unconscious  on  the  floor,  and  bear  her  through  smoke 
and  flame  to  the  cheer-ringing  street.  He  had,  of  course, 
no  faith  that  he  would  ever  get  to  know  her;  she  was 
worlds  away;  but  was  it  not  exquisitely  pathetic  to  live 
in  a  state  of  thwarted  love?  Of  course,  he  really  thought 
this  was  love,  whereas  it  was  the  idle  dream  of  an  idle 
young  man. 

And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  actually  did  come  across 
her.  Passing  the  department  stores  on  West  Twenty- 
third  Street  one  free  Saturday  afternoon  he  was  opposite 
Stern's  when  a  carriage  stopped  and  Mary  glided  over 
the  sidewalk  and  vanished  among  the  shoppers.  He  saw 
her  distinctly,  and  the  shock  was  ghastly.  After  the 
Mary  of  his  imagination  she  was  rudely  plain-faced  and 
almost  vulgarly  flesh  and  blood.  From  then  on  the 
Mary  myth  waned. 

And  so  he  worked,  a  clerk  among  clerks,  keeping  to 
himself,  making  few  friends.  The  other  clerks  paid  little 
attention  to  him:  they  thought  him  a  little  unpleasant; 
they  felt  a  temperamental  difference  that  jarred  on  their 
worldliness. 

There  were,  however,  in  the  same  office  two  clerks  of  a 
different  sort,  father  and  son,  the  Fergusons — Old  and 

87 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Young  Ferg,  as  they  were  called.  Old  Ferg,  white-haired 
and  nearly  sixty,  sat  next  the  door;  his  son  Edward  sat 
beside  him.  Edward  was  a  silent,  lanky  fellow,  stoop- 
shouldered  with  years  of  desk- work.  His  face  was  mus 
cular  in  its  leanness,  his  eyes  a  sad  brown,  his  hair  stiffly 
hung  over  his  high,  narrow  forehead.  And  this  sad  clerk 
was  a  mystery  that  arrested  Kirby's  attention  now  and 
then,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  meet  him. 

Edward's  secret  was  that  he  only  lived  when  he  went 
away  on  his  two-weeks'  vacation.  There  was  something 
untamed  and  savage  in  his  nature,  something  akin  to  the 
instinct  of  honking  geese  in  autumn  skies;  the  keen,  out 
door  freshness  that  animals  seem  to  lap  up;  the  flavor  of 
berries  or  sea-winds  or  sun  on  pine-needles.  He  desired 
to  be  a  cell  in  the  wild  nerve  of  nature,  sharing  every 
sting  and  thrill  of  the  life  of  earth.  To  put  such  a  man 
in  the  city  was  to  make  him  acutely  self-conscious,  re 
pressed,  shy.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  speak  a  whole  sen 
tence  straight  to  another  human  being.  He  was  really  a 
wild-hearted  creature  caught  in  the  web  of  industrialism. 

Naturally  he  felt  drawn  to  silent,  emotional  Kirby; 
there  were  points  where  the  characters  of  both  met.  But 
Edward  was  ordinarily  so  shy,  so  deep  in  his  rut,  that  he 
could  not  make  the  effort  to  break  into  a  new  relationship. 
However,  deep  in  the  autumn,  coming  back  from  two 
weeks  of  hunting  in  the  Canadian  wilderness,  he  was 
brown,  and  his  eyes  had  some  of  the  light  of  a  wild  animal ; 
he  walked  with  free  stride;  he  carried  a  spaciousness  of 
atmosphere;  he  smelt  gloriously  of  sunburn  and  the 
woods. 

Kirby  was  just  hanging  hat  and  coat  in  the  wardrobe 
when  Edward  came  in. 

"Back  again,"  he  said,  gaily.     "Back  in  the  mill." 

His  free  spirit  was  infectious. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Kirby. 

"Canada — hunting  moose."  And  his  lips  seemed 
loosened.  He  told  crisply  of  his  experience. 

88 


THE    YOUNG    NEW-YORKER 

Kirby  was  powerfully  drawn,  released  some  of  his 
locked-up  magnetism,  and  as  a  result  they  went  to  lunch 
together. 

"Well,  at  least,"  said  Edward,  "I  don't  live  in  a  board 
ing-house.  It's  no  place  for  a  human  being.  The  food  is 
like  our  jobs — rut  stuff." 

Kirby  laughed. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"In  a  place  you  never  heard  of — Nestwood,  just  out 
side  the  city.  I  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  gaily,  "suppose 
you  come  up  and  have  a  real  home  meal  for  a  change — 
come  to-night.  Frances  will  be  delighted  to  see  a  new 
face." 

So  that  evening,  a  perfect  evening  of  autumn,  they  went 
out  into  the  soft  light,  with  the  people  all  about  them 
swimming,  as  it  were,  at  the  bottom  of  a  sky-well  of 
floating  peace,  bright  and  busy  life  throbbing  on  the  earth 
in  harvest-time,  and  took  the  Third  Avenue  Elevated  up 
through  the  city  and  over  the  gray  level  of  the  Harlem 
River,  and  on  through  the  new  and  half-built  Bronx. 
Then  at  17  7th  Street  a  crosstown  car  to  Jerome  Avenue, 
and  the  trolley  there  north  to  its  lonely  terminus  at  the 
city  limits — 2426.  Street — passing  through  open  country 
and  the  silent  color-splashed  woods  of  upper  Van  Cort- 
landt  Park. 

The  cool  breath  of  the  woods,  the  odors  of  damp  earth 
and  withering  leaves,  the  sight  of  shadowy  wood-aisles 
that  were  balm  to  stone-encompassed  city  eyes,  the  im 
mense  quiet  after  the  noise  of  down- town,  brought  sweet 
and  deep  emotions  to  Kirby.  He  breathed  larger,  the 
pressure  of  life  relaxed,  and  he  felt  an  innocent  happiness. 
Then,  stepping  off  the  car  onto  the  dirt  road,  he  saw  the 
hill-perched  suburb  rising  beyond  the  woods,  little  frame 
houses  half  lost  in  trees,  and  the  rectangular  blocks  with 
their  little  paved  gutters  and  glistening  street-lamps. 

They  cut  across  an  empty  lot,  brushing  through  dusty 
richness  of  aster  and  goldenrod  and  bramble,  and  Edward 

89 


^THE    OLYMPIAN 

pointed  to  the  neat  green  two-family  house,  with  its  upper 
and  lower  porch,  standing  over  the  gutter  at  the  end  of  the 
path.  A  giant  oak-tree  shadowed  it  from  the  back; 
through  the  high  heavens  floated  crimson  and  golden 
cloud,  and  the  sun  spilled  a  ruddy  splendor  from  the  west 
on  house  and  tree  and  glistening  blade  of  grass.  Kirby 
was  amazed  by  the  profundity  and  richness  of  his  emotions, 
and  wondered  why  in  this  hush  of  beauty  the  blue  curling 
smoke  of  a  chimney  brought  tears  to  his  eyes.  It  was 
Earth,  whose  passion  and  dream  and  warm  soil  had  created 
and  sustained  him,  Earth  taking  him  back,  sap  of  her  sap. 
And  it  was  harvest,  the  rich  profusion  of  the  life  that 
flowers  out  over  the  wild  breast  of  Nature.  Kirby's 
deepest  instincts  vibrated  to  this;  he  felt  elemental,  as  if 
his  roots  reached  down  deep  in  the  passionate  ground 
beneath  him.  He  seemed  to  have  come  to  a  paradise. 

Edward  unlocked  the  front  door,  and  then  pushed  the 
bell-button  of  the  second  floor,  and  at  once  at  the  dark 
top  of  the  stairs  a  shadowy  form  appeared. 

"Edward— you?" 

Kirby  was  struck  by  the  passionate  quality  of  the  voice. 

"Yes."  Edward  began  to  ascend,  and  spoke  awk 
wardly.  "I've  brought  some  one  home  to  supper,  Fran." 

"To  supper?"  Amazement,  almost  anger,  was  in  the 
tone.  "But  I  didn't  expect  any  one." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Trask  will  take  pot-luck."  Edward  tried  to 
put  it  lightly. 

"He'll  have  to,"  she  said,  with  some  asperity.  "No, 
don't  kiss  me." 

She  stepped  back  swiftly  into  the  warm-lit  shadowy 
dining-room;  Edward  followed;  and  Kirby,  abashed,  as 
tounded,  blushing  with  angry  embarrassment,  emerged 
behind  him. 

Edward  spoke  with  annoyed  impatience. 

"This  is  Mr.  Trask,  Frances." 

"Oh,  good  evening,"  she  said,  coldly. 

Kirby  nodded.  And  Edward  had  said  that  Frances 

90 


THE    YOUNG    NEW-YORKER 

would  be  glad  to  see  a  new  face!  How  would  she  act  if 
she  were  sorry?  Lord,  what  a  firebrand! 

She  turned  to  Edward  again. 

"Did  you  bring  my  crochet-needle?" 

"No,"  he  said,  guiltily;  "I  forgot." 

"Naturally" — her  voice  was  cuttingly  sarcastic —  and 
here  I  am  shut  up  at  the  end  of  the  world!" 

Her  candor  before  a  stranger  was  almost  uncanny.  She 
stepped  back  in  the  light  then,  and  Kirby  saw  that  she 
was  not  tall,  but  she  was  lissome,  able-bodied,  with  dark, 
thin  face  very  expressive  at  the  eyes  and  lips.  He  began 
to  feel  a  poignant  fascination:  and  she  was  a  powerful 
hater,  which  meant  that  she  was  also  a  powerful  lover. 
At  any  rate,  she  could  never  be  indifferent,  never  be  un 
interesting. 

She  broke  the  painful  hush  with  a  snap. 

"Well,  I  may  as  well  get  supper!" 

And  out  she  went  in  a  savage,  impulsive  way  into  the 
lighted  rear  kitchen.  The  two  men  stepped  out  on,  the 
upper  porch  and  saw  Earth  fading  in  warm  twilight,  with 
the  lighted  cars  passing  on  Jerome  Avenue  and  a  dog 
swiftly  stirring  through  the  lost  goldenrod  of  the  empty 
lot.  They  were  speechless  with  guilty  discomposure. 

Then  Edward  said,  awkwardly: 

"I'm  sorry — she'll  soon  come  round." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  come,"  Kirby  replied. 

"Supper!"  they  heard  her  call,  and  came  back  and  took 
their  places.  But  already  a  change  had  come  over  her; 
Kirby  noticed  that  she  wore  a  sprig  of  goldenrod  in  her 
hair  and  a  little  sparkling  necklace  round  her  throat. 
These  had  not  been  there  before,  and  might  have  been  a 
token  of  truce,  for  she  was  full  of  excited  animation. 
Gracefully  she  waited  on  the  men,  passing  to  and  from  the 
kitchen;  and  when  she  sat  under  the  low  radiance  she 
seemed  to  delight  in  cross-questioning  Kirby,  in  drawing 
out  his  history,  in  getting  his  opinions  on  New  York  and 
the  express  job.  Kirby  felt  as  if  she  were  casting  a  spell 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

on  him;  he,  too,  grew  unusually  communicative,  and 
talked  with  buoyant  gaiety. 

He  got  a  clue  to  the  fact  that  this  passionate  woman  was 
childless,  that  she  saw  little  of  her  husband,  and  that  only 
when  he  was  tired  with  work;  that  she  had  some  of 
Edward's  native  savagery;  and  that,  shut  away  in  this 
lonesome  suburb,  she  smoldered,  an  intense  rebel,  ready 
to  explode. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it's  a  dog's  life  up  here.  I  don't 
care  what  people  say;  I  know  it's  a  shameful  thing,  but, 
oh,  I  want  money,  money;  I  want  luxury  and  servants  and 
— everything.  I  could  loll  Edward  sometimes,"  she 
laughed,  "for  being  a  clerk!" 

Edward  looked  sad  and  thoughtful,  whereupon  she  came 
round  and  smacked  his  face  maliciously. 

They  went  into  the  parlor  and  settled  down  on  the  old 
horsehair  furniture. 

"Aren't  they  hideous?"  she  cried.  "They're  a  wedding 
present  from  Edward's  parents.  I  hate  them.  Some  day 
I'll — but,  you'll  see!" 

"Oh,  come  now,  Fran!"  murmured  Edward. 

"Oh,  you  think  it  isn't  in  me — but  it  is.  I'm  a  dan 
gerous  woman,  Mr.  Trask.  He  doesn't  know  me  any  more 
than  he  knows — Latin." 

Edward  released  a  disc  on  the  phonograph,  and  the 
sweet,  tragic  notes  of  "Aida"  shook  the  frame  house. 
Kirby  watched  Frances.  She  sat  leaning  forward,  her 
face  on  her  two  fists,  and  in  her  eyes  and  quivering  lips 
some  dream,  perhaps,  as  of  Vikings  stealing  women. 
Yes,  there  was  something  of  the  Norse  in  her. 

"Now,  I  don't  want  any  more  music,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  talk." 

She  talked  with  Kirby,  and  he  told  wryly  of  the  dis 
comforts  of  boarding-house  life. 

"Why,  that's  worse  than  here,"  she  said.  "I  once  did 
it  myself,  and  I  know.  Why  don't  you  come  and  live 
with  us?  We  have  an  extra  room,  and  the  money  would 

92 


THE    YOUNG    NEW-YORKER 

help,  and  you  and  Ed  could  go  to  work  together  and  come 
back  together.  I  mean  it.  I'm  not  joking.  Come  and 
see  the  room." 

Edward  heartily  seconded  this,  for  he  felt  that  Kirby 
would  freshen  Frances  and  keep  her  out  of  her  morbid 
moods.  It  would  disperse  her  loneliness.  He  showed 
Kirby  the  large  neat  room  off  the  dining-room  which 
contrasted  vividly  with  the  Twenty-sixth  Street  place; 
and  when  Kirby  stood  at  the  door,  ready  to  go,  Frances 
gripped  his  hand  hard,  with  a  final: 

"It's  the  thing  to  do — for  all  of  us!" 

Edward  took  him  to  the  car,  and  treading  blindly 
through  the  lot,  lost  in  the  charm  of  this  place,  with  its 
immense  spread  of  starry  skies,  its  balmy  silence,  its  sweet 
odors,  and  the  little  music  of  wind  in  the  grasses  and  the  far 
woods ,  Kirby  felt  that  it  would  be  heavenly  to  live  here.  B  e- 
sides  he  felt  stirred  by  Frances  as  by  great,  clashing  music. 

The  ride  was  long  back  into  the  human-pulsing  city, 
which  to-night  seemed  over-bright  and  crassly  spangled, 
like  a  woman  of  the  streets,  bold  and  impudent.  It  was 
nearly  midnight  when  Kirby  climbed  up  through  the 
boarding-house.  Mrs.  Waverley  was  still  sitting  up,  so  he 
stepped  in  a  moment. 

"You  look  happy  to-night!"  she  said. 

"  I  am,  Aunt  Annie,"  he  laughed.  And  then  he  told  her 
of  the  visit  and  the  offer  of  bed  and  board.  And  Mrs. 
Waverley  thought:  "I  shall  miss  him  badly,  but  it  may  be 
best  for  him.  They'll  keep  him  home  nights."  For  she 
was  worried  by  his  night  habits,  as  she  was  worried  by  his 
listless  indifference  to  his  future. 

"I'd  go,  Kirby,"  she  said.     "Try  it,  anyway." 

"I  will,  Aunt  Annie!" 

Her  eyes  gleamed  at  him  fondly. 

"Oh,  Kirby,"  she  sighed,  "when  will  I  ever  get  to  un 
derstand  you?" 

HQ  lay  awake  late  in  the  night  thinking  of  Edward's 
strange  wife. 

93 


X 

FRANCES 

FOR  a  while,  after  moving  up  to  Nestwood,  Kirby 
seemed  each  night  to  go  back  to  some  far-off  pas 
toral  ancestry.  The  autumnal  torches  of  the  wood  were 
waved  by  the  wind  against  the  conflagration  of  the  sunset, 
and  in  the  circle  of  singing  fire  the  house  stood  hushed 
among  the  goldenrods  and  asters,  its  windows  shining, 
and  a  dark  woman  leaning  over  the  upper  porch  and 
watching,  watching.  Homing  birds  darkened  the  upper 
skies ;  belated  songsters  twittered  in  the  ghost  atmosphere ; 
some  dog  barked;  chimneys  smoked;  and  the  human 
being  seemed  to  open  and  feel  the  warm  flow  of  Earth's 
multitudinous  life.  After  the  pent-in  clash  of  down-town, 
the  commuting  toilers  came  into  the  easy,  undulant 
rhythms  of  peace. 

Then,  in  the  dark  dining-room,  they  sat  out  the  last 
of  the  light,  two  tired  men  waited  on  by  the  woman  who 
emerged  and  vanished,  a  shadow  in  the  shadows.  The 
simplicity  and  hush  of  such  life  seemed  ancient  as  the 
Earth.  When  their  food  disappeared  in  dusk,  light  blazed 
for  them,  with  amazing  reality  of  shining  faces;  and  then 
there  was  the  evening  in  the  sitting-room.  Frances  sewed, 
Edward  opened  a  book  on  American  pioneers,  and  Kirby 
sat  watching  the  woman  and  now  and  then  speaking  low 
with  her. 

However,  the  excited  animation  of  that  first  night  did 
not  return  to  her;  she  seemed  perpetually  bleak  and 
desperate.  Her  burst  of  interest  in  Kirby  had  evidently 

94 


FRANCES 

passed,  and  he  became  as  another  lay  figure  in  the  furni 
ture  of  her  life.  She  often  spoke  with  bitterness.  One 
morning,  just  as  Kirby  and  Edward  stood  at  the  door 
ready  to  go,  she  suddenly  turned  from  the  window, 
crossed  the  room  in  a  strange,  impulsive  way,  almost 
dancing  savagely,  flung  her  arms  about  her  husband's 
neck,  kissed  him,  and  then  drew  back  her  head  and 
exclaimed,  fiercely: 

"My  God!  Why  doesn't  it  thrill  me  any  more  when 
you  put  your  arms  around  me?" 

Edward  was  startled;  he  smiled  grimly.  Then  gently 
he  released  himself. 

"I've  got  to  hurry,  Fran!" 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  tearfully,  "your  old  building  would 
burn  up!" 

But  Edward,  too,  had  swiftly  changed.  The  liquid 
freshness  of  his  Canadian  outing  had  faded;  day  by  day 
he  sank  deeper  into  the  rut  of  the  years,  and  became  at  last 
again  the  shy,  ego-centric  clerk,  tragically  sad.  He  found 
it  hard  to  be  pleasant  with  Kirby,  the  choke  of  tragedy  in 
his  throat  incessantly  making  him  abrupt.  Nor  was  there 
much  to  say;  both  shared  the  same  life — a  life  that  offered 
no  surprises,  no  changes,  and,  hence,  no  need  of  discussion 
and  planning.  And  Kirby  found  that  Edward  had  been  a 
clerk  for  eleven  years. 

It  seemed  that  when  Edward  was  fourteen  his  father 
had  bought  him  his  first  pair  of  long  trousers,  and  the 
awkward  lad  by  merely  plunging  his  thin  legs  into  cylin 
ders  of  cloth  had  veritably  stepped  into  manhood.  He 
became  a  wage-earner,  clerking  with  a  steamship  company 
till  he  was  seventeen,  and  then  going  into  the  express-com 
pany  office  with  his  father.  And  so  for  eleven  years  a 
wild-hearted  creature  had  struggled  feebly  with  one  foot 
in  a  trap. 

His  marriage  had  but  enmeshed  him  the  more.  At 
twenty-one,  with  a  salary  of  twenty  dollars  a  week,  the 
highest  he  could  hope  for  in  years,  he  had  felt  powerfully 

95 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

that  he  should  not  marry.  Marriage  meant  narrowing 
life  into  a  cheap  flat,  and  no  children;  for  an  industrial 
civilization  that  keyed  up  the  standards  of  life  in  sanitation 
and  comfort  and  pleasure,  and  at  the  same  time  grudgingly 
paid  its  servitors  the  least  possible  wage,  seemed  to  make 
childlessness  for  many  imperative. 

He  had  not  wanted  to  marry;  but  one  day,  in  a  cheap 
restaurant,  he  had  met  Frances,  a  girl  alone  in  the  city, 
and  the  acquaintanceship  had  flamed  into  passion,  and, 
despite  his  rebellious  struggling,  the  elemental  drive  of 
love  had  forced  him  on,  just  as  the  pressure  of  the  city 
had  pushed  him  into  his  clerkship.  Naturally  the  romance 
faded  in  the  suburban  two-family  house,  and  the  barren 
wife  of  the  ill-paid  clerk  had  become  a  thwarted,  desperate 
woman.  She  was  bitter,  full  of  an  intense  apathy,  hateful 
of  herself  and  the  stupid  neighbors  and  the  lonesome 
suburb,  sometimes  hateful  of  her  husband,  a  leashed 
menace. 

So,  as  the  rich  autumn  despoiled  itself,  flung  its  riches 
to  the  dust,  and  grew  nakedly  aged  and  wintry,  and  all  the 
country-side  was  bare,  Kirby  lost  the  pleasure  of  home 
coming  ;  now  a  chill  settled  on  his  spirit,  and  he  felt  as  if 
he  were  going  out  to  something  dead  and  forlorn.  He 
grew  restless  in  the  long  evenings,  and  wanted  again 
the  sparkling  laughter  of  excited  Broadway,  the  pagan 
abandon  of  the  New  York  night  life.  He  felt,  as  he  put 
it,  as  if  he  would  jump  out  of  his  skin. 

Yet,  nevertheless,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  the 
breaking-point.  The  spell  of  Frances  persisted — the  spell 
of  a  witch  that  drew  him  morbidly  to  her.  He  could 
easily  imagine  the  eruption  of  lava  and  smoke  and  flame 
that  would  ensue  from  some  passionate  precipitation. 
And  such  an  event  would  whirl  him  into  a  madness  of 
passion  and  love  that  he  had  never  before  experienced; 
this  woman  had  it  in  her  to  be  a  terrible  lover,  ready  to 
ruin  herself  and  the  world  for  an  enchanted  hour. 

Sometimes,  and  especially  when  she  was  listening  to 

96 


FRANCES 

music,  he  saw  the  promise  in  her  eyes.  Sometimes  she 
seemed  to  gaze  at  him  as  if  she  were  planning  an  escape 
through  him.  His  heart  beat  hard,  and  he  was  flushed 
with  swiftened  blood. 

Yet  the  routine  went  on,  as  if  endlessly.  And  this 
routine  was  hardest  to  bear  on  Sundays.  On  that  day 
the  bell  of  the  alarm-clock  was  mute;  all  slept  late,  and 
arose  yawning  with  an  extra  fatigue;  breakfast  was  slip 
shod;  and  then  Kirby  and  Frances  and  Edward  settled 
down  on  the  horsehair  furniture  and  passed  several 
pounds  of  Sunday  newspaper  to  each  other.  There  was 
the  comic  supplement,  with  its  dreary  primary-colored 
repetitions  of  horse-play;  the  magazine  section,  with  its 
quarter-page  headings  of  "Scientist  Claims  He  Has 
Triumphed  Over  Death,"  "This  Heiress  Left  Millions 
for  a  Coachman's  Love,"  "Does  Your  Heart  Ever  Feel 
as  if  Needles  Were  Darting  Through?  Read  This," 
"Vivisector  Baring  a  Monkey's  Brain" — a  riot  of  brash 
sensationalism  that  gave  dull  throbs  of  excitement  to 
dusty  hearts.  And  so  they  read  themselves  stupid,  and 
arose  yawning,  in  their  Sunday  best,  and  took  the  car  to 
the  city.  This  car  was  crowded  with  consciously  ap 
pareled  folk  stupid  with  the  same  Sunday  process,  and 
they  had  the  fussily  dressed  and  tearful  children  with  them 
to  give  an  air  of  restlessness. 

The  city  seemed  queerly  dead — traffic  stopped,  the 
streets  hushed  in  Sabbath;  and  one  might  feel  the  un 
nerving  of  millions  of  people  who  had  nothing  to  do.  The 
lower  city  was  uncanny,  undressed;  the  tall  buildings 
empty;  the  streets  bared. 

Thus  they  crossed  the  Bridge  and  penetrated  to  the 
mean  back  street  of  Brooklyn  where  Edward's  father 
lived.  It  was  a  tiny  frame  house ;  and  there  was  the  stout 
mother  and  the  flabby  unmarried  sister. 

Dull  greetings  passed,  and  they  sat  down  to  the  inevit 
able  dinner — a  heavy  soup,  a  two-rib  roast,  a  vegetable  like 
cauliflower  or  spinach,  and  pudding  or  ice-cream.  Used 

97 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

to  light  lunches,  all  felt  the  enervation  of  a  full  dinner,  and 
at  once  scattered  over  the  house,  stretched  on  bed  and 
lounge,  and  slept  heavily  for  an  hour. 

Then  came  the  long  ride  back  through  the  forlorn,  dark 
ening  city.  Only  supper  brought  relief;  by  very  reaction 
the  splash  of  gay  light,  the  spread  of  cold  meats  and  cheese 
and  pickles,  brought  a  wild  joyousness. 

The  only  fresh  note  in  these  Sunday  excursions  as  the 
winter  deepened  was  an  outburst  of  complaints  from 
Old  Ferg.  He  was  nearly  sixty,  and  had  clerked  for 
forty-four  years — a  whole  lifetime.  Now,  after  decades  of 
soundness,  he  began  to  ail,  to  complain  of  pains  in  his 
heart.  The  stout  mother  urged  him  to  see  a  doctor,  and 
Old  Ferg's  opinion  was  that  "once  you  start  with  doctors 
you're  done  for." 

Every  other  Thursday  Edward  got  notice  of  the  meeting 
of  his  lodge,  but  he  never  went.  However,  one  Thursday 
evening  toward  the  end  of  November,  he  decided  to  go. 
As  a  result,  for  the  first  time  Kirby  and  Frances  were  left 
alone  with  each  other. 

It  was  a  startling  night ;  a  great  wind  blew  crazily  around 
the  house,  making  it  tremble  and  creak;  the  night  was 
loud  with  clash  of  boughs  and  the  shrill  cries  of  the  gale; 
and  so  the  front  sitting-room  seemed  to  bubble  with 
warmth,  a  glowing  and  hushed  heart  in  the  storm. 

So  when  they  heard  the  front  door  slam  they  stepped 
back  from  the  hall,  acutely  aware  that  they  were  shut  in 
together.  For  several  hours  now  they  would  be  alone, 
and  the  wild  night  whirled  around  them  like  a  scarf 
winding  them  close. 

"Did  you  close  the  door?"  asked  Frances.  >_  The  strange 
ness  of  her  voice  thrilled  him. 

"Yes.     It's  shut  tight." 

"Br-r-r!"  she  said,  "I'm  chilly!" 

She  stepped  into  the  sitting-room  and  passed  over  to  the 
radiator.  Warmth  rose  from  it  in  visible  waves.  She 
stood,  her  hands  held  over  it,  her  lissome  body  erect. 

98 


FRANCES 

From  the  center-table  the  Welsbach  lamp  threw  an 
intense  underlight  on  empty  rocker  and  Morris  chair. 
The  Morris  chair  was  directly  against  the  table,  where 
Edward  could  get  illumination  for  reading;  the  rocker 
faced  it. 

Kirby  paused  near  the  table,  looking  at  her,  and  sud 
denly  she  turned,  and  he  seemed  to  see  that  light  of  the 
first  night  flashing  in  her  eyes,  as  if  again  she  was  dreaming 
of  Vikings  stealing  women — yes,  as  if  she  longed  for  such 
brutal  manhood,  such  savage  mating. 

And  he  remembered  a  bit  out  of  Norse  mythology,  the 
galloping  through  the  air  of  the  Valkyrs  on  their  black 
horses  bearing  the  slain  warriors  to  Valhalla.  It  was  as 
if  in  the  whistling  wind  outside  they  passed  on  the  wild 
last  ride,  the  breastplated  women,  speared,  with  stream 
ing  hair  under  their  helmets,  bearing  the  dead  to  the 
North. 

"What  a  night!"  he  murmured. 

"I  like  it — I  love  it!"  she  said,  savagely.  "It's  big — 
it's  splendid.  That's  the  way  I'd  like  to  live — not  this 
way!" 

Then  Kirby  felt  as  if  a  beautiful  peril  were  overwhelm 
ing  him,  for  she  advanced  slowly  toward  the  table,  put  a 
hand  on  it,  leaned  a  little,  and  mused. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  space,  but  stood  with  heads  in 
shadow  and  their  hands  staring  with  light.  The  walls 
seemed  to  shake  with  sudden  buffets  of  wind,  the  windows 
rattled,  and  Kirby  felt  his  head  getting  hot. 

Then  all  at  once  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"How  old  are  you,  Kirby?" 

He  spoke  under  his  breath,  almost  stammering. 

"Twenty-five." 

"Have  you  ever  loved  a  woman?" 

His  heart  shook  like  the  walls.  He  could  hardly  set 
his  lips  for  speech. 

"No— not  exactly." 

"I  wonder  if  you  really  could — but,  no,"  she  said,  pas- 
8  99 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

sionately,  "men  don't  know  how  to  love — they  don't  know 
how!"  Her  voice  changed.  "Go  and  see  if  the  door  is 
shut." 

He  tried  to  smile. 

"It  is." 

"Go  and  see,  anyhow." 

He  went  out;  when  he  returned  she  stood  with  her  sew 
ing  in  her  hands. 

"Are  you  going  to  sew?"  he  asked. 

She  glanced  down  at  rocker  and  Morris  chair. 

"No.  I'm  not  going  to  sit  there  to-night.  For  I've 
sat  there  with  him  until — " 

She  broke  off,  musing.  He  had  come  very  close,  and 
now  she  lifted  eyes  that  were  full  of  a  wild  dreaming. 

"Twenty-five,"  she  said,  hauntingly.  "And  never 
loved  a  woman."  The  sewing  dropped  from  her  hands, 
and  she  stood  as  if  waiting  for  some  terrible  great  deed, 
as  if  she  watched  Kirby  to  see  if  he  belonged  to  the  Vi 
kings.  Blasts  of  wind  seemed  to  rock  the  house,  and  their 
lonely  contact  was  an  exquisite  agony. 

He  reached  slowly,  inevitably,  took  her  hands,  drew 
her  round.  Then,  remembering  Janice  on  the  campus,  he 
reached  and  kissed  her  forehead.  Whereupon,  amazingly, 
she  seized  his  head  in  her  hands,  lifted  it,  and  kissed  him 
on  the  lips. 

1 '  Frances !' '  he  cried. 

But  she  had  slipped  away  and  stood  looking  at  him 
with  tremulous  bitterness. 

"I  wanted,"  she  said,  with  her  brutal  candor,  "to  see 
if  it  thrilled  me." 

He  was  aghast  and  frozen  at  this  revelation  of  cold 
bloodedness. 

"And  it — "  he  began. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  wonderful  tenderness.  "I'm  a 
fool,  Kirby,  a  fool  of  a  woman.  I've  treated  you  badly. 
I'm  going  to  bed,  but,  oh" — she  sighed — "I  just  had  to 
see!" 

too 


FRANCES 

She  left  him  standing  there  speechless,  shocked  out  of 
his  illusions,  almost  remorseful;  for  at  last  the  sane 
thought  came  to  him  that  perhaps  it  was  not  the  noblest 
thing  in  the  world  to  lend  himself  to  the  breaking-up  of  a 
friend's  home.  He  was  astounded  to  think  how  he  had 
slipped  into  this  entanglement;  and  he  went  to  bed, 
sobered,  resolved  to  return  to  the  city. 

Yet  he  stayed  on,  and  the  house  became  more  desolate 
than  ever.  Frances  now  paid  no  attention  to  him;  she 
seemed  to  be  in  a  fearful  trance;  and  Kirby  felt  that 
just  as  her  woman's  body  was  barren,  so  was  the  house  and 
their  hearts  and  minds.  He  began  to  be  a  little  afraid 
of  her;  the  air  was  charged  with  the  oncoming  of  some 
terrible  event.  It  was  probably  this  feeling  of  being 
caught  in  a  Greek  tragedy  that  kept  him  from  leaving; 
it  was  as  if  he  had  to  see  it  out. 

On  the  evening  of  the  ninth  of  December,  a  cold  and 
windy  night,  Kirby  and  Edward  stepped  off  the  car  at 
the  terminal  at  quarter  to  seven.  There  had  been  a 
block  on  the  line.  They  stepped  silently  over  the  road 
to  the  little  eminence  of  the  empty  lot,  and  then  stopped. 

"That's  strange,"  said  Edward. 

In  the  center  of  the  lot  a  great  bonfire  roared,  scattering 
sparks.  Almost  in  terror  they  stepped  forward  and  saw, 
on  the  burning  heap,  the  horsehair  sofa  of  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Good  God!"  gasped  Edward.     "It's  Frances!" 

And  then  they  were  struck  stock  still  by  the  wild  sight 
in  the  December  evening,  the  leaping  flames,  and  the 
sudden  revealing  of  a  woman  new  to  them — a  wild  creature, 
crouching,  hair  loosened  in  wind,  flame-lit  eyes  dilated, 
lips  parted — living  as  she  hadn't  lived  for  years. 

They  felt  as  if  their  bodies  were  in  the  fire  as  they  came 
up. 

"But  that  is  our  furniture,"  said  Edward,  mechanically. 
It  was  too  astounding  to  believe. 

"I  couldn't  stand  them  any  longer,  Eddy,"  she  cried, 

101 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

fiercely,  and  yet  with  strange  exultation:  "I've  seen  them 
too  long." 

And  he  could  not  be  angered,  for  he  understood;  she 
was  burning  up  the  barren  years. 

And  it  seemed  to  Kirby  that  evening  that  Edward  found 
his  wife  newly  beautiful  and  alluring;  a  fresh  passion  went 
into  their  tamed  love — a  gust  of  joy.  Like  the  mirth  of 
Christmas  morning,  which  is  partly  the  strangeness  of  a 
green  tree  and  the  glitter  of  lights  in  over-familiar  sur 
roundings,  so  bringing  the  miracle  of  new  environment, 
was  the  mirth  of  these  three  forced  to  sit  in  the  dining- 
room  because  the  parlor  was  utterly  empty,  looking,  as 
Frances  put  it,  as  if  the  flat's  six  rooms  were  teeth  and  one 
of  them  had  been  pulled  out.  And  she  told  with  excited 
laughter  how  she  had  come  to  her  sudden  decision,  how 
she  had  called  up  Olsen,  the  Swede,  from  the  floor  be 
low;  'how  she  had  forced  the  trembling  man  to  lug  the 
furniture,  piece  by  piece,  into  the  empty  lot,  where, 
against  his  terrified  protests,  she  had  set  fire  to  the 
heap. 

Kirby  sat  watching  her  like  a  pupil  being  taught  about 
life.  Was  she  human  ?  For  to  the  young  man  the  spec 
tacle  of  the  fire  and  its  reaction  on  this  stale  couple 
crashed  through  all  his  experience  and  his  traditions.  It 
was  unimaginable;  it  made  life  fantastic. 

But  it  was  as  a  brand  lighting  luridly  the  submerged 
depths  of  his  mind,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  look  inward. 
With  that  fierce  flame  beating  in,  he  lay  awake  long  that 
night;  inklings  of  startling  truth  came  to  him.  The  life 
of  the  treadmill,  dream-led  adventurous  human  nature 
harnessed  for  too  long  a  time,  led  to  just  this.  For  eleven 
years  Edward  had  clerked.  In  ten  more  years  Kirby,  too, 
might  be  such  a  thwarted  soul.  Sharply  he  knew,  then, 
that  he  was  a  failure,  and  he  felt  that  for  the  first  time  he 
began  really  to  see  himself  and  his  work.  For  nearly  a  year 
he  had  been  in  a  strange  trance;  but  now  his  eyes  were 
open,  and  he  decided  on  the  morrow  to  look  with  clear 

102 


FRANCES 

vision  on  the  trap  that  held  him.  For  trap  it  was; 
Frances  might  burn  furniture,  but  what  did  that  avail 
her?  Her  husband's  salary  was  still  twenty  a  week,  and 
there  was  no  future  and  no  escape.  Kirby's  year  of  in 
dolence  was  being  shaken  out  of  him. 


XI 

CLERKS 

IF  anything,  Edward  and  Frances  felt  more  bitter  than 
usual  in  the  morning,  but  it  was  a  tender  bitterness, 
shot  through  by  a  gentler  regard  for  each  other.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  they  would  have  to  tell  the  family 
about  the  destruction  of  the  wedding  gift;  and  such  a 
recital  to  people  who  had  no  adventure  in  them  would  rob 
the  event  of  its  beauty — make  it  a  sordid  and  ugly,  even 
a  wicked  thing.  Then  there  was  the  cost  of  new  furni 
ture;  perhaps  enough  savings  to  jeopardize  Edward's 
next  vacation.  And  then,  worse  yet,  the  fire  had  lit 
up  the  tragedy  of  their  lives,  so  that  they  had  to  look  it 
in  the  face;  this  made  it  all  the  harder  to  go  on,  yet 
there  was  nothing  to  do,  no  escape.  It  would  be  folly 
to  leave  a  position  that  paid  more  than  he  could  hope  for 
elsewhere,  and  in  the  cold  of  the  morning — they  heard 
wagon-wheels  whistling  in  the  ruts,  and  the  sound  of  it 
set  their  teeth  on  edge — they  seemed,  if  anything,  in  a 
harder  predicament  than  before.  For  previously  they  had 
tried  to  fool  themselves;  now  the  truth  was  in  each 
other's  eyes,  and  they  had  to  live  with  it.  And  not  only 
the  truth  of  their  home  life;  that  whole  day  Edward  saw 
his  environment  with  a  new  and  stabbing  vividness. 

But  the  dark  winter  morning  began  in  the  most  or 
dinary  way.  Olsen  had  not  yet  started  the  hot-water 
heater,  and  when,  at  six-twenty,  the  alarm-clock  went 
off  and  Edward  snatched  it  from  the  chair  beside  him  and 
stuffed  it  under  his  pillow,  Frances  slipped  out  savagely 

104 


CLERKS 

on  a  floor  that  burned  like  ice  and  into  air  that  was 
freezingly  bitter. 

"I'll  light  the  stove,"  she  gasped,  inserting  her  naked 
feet  into  slippers  and  hustling  on  a  pink  wrapper.  "  Now, 
Ed,  don't  fall  asleep." 

She  dashed  from  the  room  which  gave  directly  into  the 
kitchen,  and  stood  with  teeth  clicking  as  she  lit  the 
stove.  Kirby  was  already  in  the  bath-room,  shaved,  and 
nearly  dressed  when  Edward  slipped  in,  gray  with 
fatigue. 

"Cold,"  said  Kirby.  He  looked  at  Edward's  face 
sharply ;  he,  too,  was  awake  and  aware  this  morning. 

They  heard  Frances  muttering  "Br-r-r!  I  think  it's 
colder  in  here  than  outdoors." 

Edward  took  out  his  shaving  apparatus;  the  clear 
water  was  burning  cold.  Frances  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"The  milk's' frozen— look." 

She  held  up  the  bottle,  from  the  neck  of  which  the 
frozen  cream  protruded  like  a  jack-in-the-box. 

"I'll  heat  some  water  for  you,  Ed." 

He  felt  too  bitter  to  speak. 

"Haven't  time!"  he  muttered.     "Get  the  breakfast." 

A  little  later,  facing  the  naked  and  uncannily  cold 
sitting-room,  they  drank  hot  coffee  and  ate  hot  oatmeal. 
Not  a  word  was  said.  Then,  in  the  creaking  silence,  the 
radiator  began  to  thump. 

"I  suppose,"  thought  Frances,  "the  letter-carrier '11 
get  here  around  noon,  and  nothing  else  will  happen  to-day. 
Lord,  I'll  die  again  of  the  excitement." 

They  rose,  and  while  the  men  muffled  their  throats  and 
got  on  coat  and  hat  she  strode  to  the  window,  shuddering. 

"This  place,"  she  thought,  "looks  worse  than  ever; 
it's  as  lonesome  as  a  toothache." 

She  breathed  on  the  frosted  pane,  rubbed  a  spot  clear, 
and  peered  through  on  the  shabby  hill-perched  suburb — 
the  mean,  poverty-stricken  frame  houses,  the  narrow  lamp- 
lit  streets,  the  naked  trees. 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Nothing  but  dogs  here,"  she  thought — "human  or  the 
other  kind." 

The  men  now  stood  at  the  door,  and  she  suddenly 
turned,  glided  over,  reached,  and  kissed  her  husband. 

"Good-by,"  she  murmured,  with  despairing  sadness. 
"Good-by." 

He  was,  she  thought,  with  a  pang,  exceedingly  good  to 
her.  Not  one  complaint  over  her  wild,  unnatural  deed. 
And  he  looked  so  shabby  and  hopeless. 

He  smiled  sadly,  and  then  he  and  Kirby  went  down  the 
stairs  and  cut  across  the  empty  lot,  avoiding  little  patches 
of  ice,  in  a  wintry  gray  world  still  spotted  with  street 
lights.  But  they  could  not  avoid  the  ashes  and  charred 
wood,  the  heap  huddled  like  freezing  beggars  keeping  each 
other  warm,  a  foot  of  a  chair,  the  blackened  sofa-frame, 
the  runners  of  the  rocker  where  Frances  had  sewed  night 
after  night,  and  bits  of  upholstery  and  little  scattered 
and  matted  lumps  of  horsehair.  To  Edward  it  was  his 
inner  life  lying  before  him. 

They  hurried  by,  speechless.  A  lighted  car  was  waiting 
at^the  lonely  terminal  on  Jerome  Avenue,  and  the  motor- 
man  and  conductor  were  inside,  with  shut  doors,  swinging 
their  arms  and  dancing  up  and  down.  The  two  got  in, 
but  likewise  were  too  cold  to  sit. 

They  stood  moodily  passing  weather  words  with  the 
conductor  down  a  twenty-minute  stretch  of  bleak  Bronx 
bareness.  Laborers  got  on,  numbers  brought  the  illusion 
of  warmth,  but  at  17  7th  Street  they  had  to  change  cars, 
waiting  six  long  minutes  at  the  open  corner  for  the  trolley 
to  bear  them  crosstown.  Then  at  Third  Avenue  they 
purchased  newspapers  and  climbed  to  the  Elevated  station, 
and  in  the  warm  and  crowded  car  they  tried  to  relax  and 
to  read  the  news  as  they  were  borne  past  thousands  of 
people  eating  breakfast. 

They  got  off  at  Hanover  Square,  emerging  suddenly 
small  in  the  bottom  of  that  high  region  of  skyscrapers. 
Broadway  was  still  gray  and  cruelly  wind-swept,  and  a 

106 


CLERKS 

crowd  of  stenographers  and  clerks  hurried  along  the 
pavements  and  into  the  doorways.  And  they  noticed 
with  new  vividness  the  brilliant  gas-lit  building  and  felt 
like  cogs  clicking  back  into  a  machine  as  they  joined  the 
throng  of  men  that  tramped  across  the  sawdust  of  the 
first  floor  and  up  the  tall  stairs. 

As  ever,  they  pushed  open  the  dim  glass  door  and  en 
tered  the  middle  office,  its  air-shaft  window  reflecting  the 
burning  gas-jets.  As  ever,  the  steam-heat  bubbled  joy 
ously  from  the  radiator,  and  the  room  smelt  strongly  of 
mop  and  brown  slop-water.  And  they  took  off  coat  and 
hat,  carefully  placed  them  in  the  wooden  wardrobe, 
pulled  out  their  keys,  unlocked  their  desks.  And  Kirby 
sat  down,  glancing  about,  his  mind  scratched  by  every 
one  of  these  little  facts;  but  Edward  stood  in  a  dream. 

One  fierce  thought  was  uppermost  in  Edward's  mind; 
he  had  gone  through  this  whole  morning  process  for 
exactly  eleven  years,  day  after  dull  day,  just  as  precise  and 
unfailing  as  his  alarm-clock;  and  he  hated  it,  he  now  knew, 
with  all  his  heart  and  soul.  He  hated  it. 

And  he  knew,  more  than  ever,  that  he  only  lived  two 
weeks  out  of  the  year.  For  fifty  weeks  he  was  a  machine; 
for  two  fierce  summer  weeks  he  was  that  mystery — him 
self.  That  strange  fellow  who  discarded  linen  collar, 
polished  shoes,  necktie,  and  all  decency  and  went,  in 
corduroy  and  woolen,  gun  in  hand,  a  free  man  in  the 
Canadian  wilderness — a  silent  man,  with  nostrils  breath 
ing  balsam,  with  heart  leaping,  tracking  the  moose  in 
trails  beyond  the  lights,  where  a  newspaper's  best  use  was 
to  wrap  up  a  cold  lunch,  where  a  clerk  ceased  to  be  an 
ink-stained  cipher  and  became  a  careless  god  for  whom  the 
earth  and  the  heavens  were  spread. 

The  anemic,  smart-dressed  young  fellows  could  never 
have  divined  the  wild  streak  in  Young  Ferg.  They  dis 
liked  his  silence,  being  very  voluble  themselves.  In  fact, 
a  group  of  these  undersized  and  flabby  young  men  now 
entered,  quenching  cigarettes  against  the  desks,  striking 

107 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

folded-arm  and  leg-crossed  attitudes  toward  each  other, 
and  with  nimble  gaiety  passing  wit  on  the  Big  Three  of 
Clerkdom — gambling,  whisky,  and  women. 

"Gee!  but  she  was  a  pippin — how  about  it?" 

"Did  y'  hear?  Brant's  got  in  bad  on  B.  &.  F.  margin. 
The  loan-shark  for  him!" 

"Here  comes  Bradsley;  drunk  again!" 

And  this  was  a  fact,  for  Bradsley  came  in  jovially,  foggy 
and  groggy  with  liquor. 

"  'Lo,  Ferg,"  he  said,  groping  past  the  dreaming  clerk. 
" How's  yer  dad?" 

"Not  down  yet!"  muttered  Edward. 

But  just  then  Edward's  father  came  in,  in  his  light, 
tripping  way,  hopping  almost  like  a  bird,  with  head  cocked 
to  one  side,  a  dry,  dry  little  man,  threadbare,  with  little 
grizzled  beard  and  fluffy  white  hair,  and  pulpy,  colorless 
face.  His  bright,  small  eyes  were  bloodshot;  he  had  a 
nervous  habit  of  rubbing  his  hands  together,  hands  in- 
eradicably  stained  with  record-ink. 

Openly  Edward  tolerated  his  father;  secretly  this  morn 
ing  he  despised  him.  "He  has  the  soul  of  a  slave,  he's  a 
cog.  Eleven  years,"  he  thought,  darkly,  "I've  been  like 
him — but  he's  been  at  it  forty-four." 

And  suddenly  he  saw  himself  clerking  on  and  on  for 
thirty-three  more  years  and  gradually  turning  into  this  dry 
little  thing,  his  skull  stuffed  with  tariff  schedules,  his 
fingers  black  with  ink,  running  his  pen  through  his  hair, 
whenever  he  was  puzzled,  till  his  scalp  itched.  Why,  hav 
ing  squeezed  all  the  humanness  out  of  himself,  had  his 
father  forced  Edward  at  fourteen  to  go  clerking  likewise? 
Poor  automaton,  thought  Edward,  bitterly,  so  meagerly 
educated  that  he  plopped  at  every  stranger  this  revelation 
of  genius  in  the  family: 

"  I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  who  can  play  things  right  off — 
by  ear!" 

They  called  him  Old  Ferg;  he  was  a  fixture  in  the  busi 
ness;  he  would  be  here  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  then  again 

108 


on  Monday  morning.     Carefully  reaching  his  coat  over 
a  nail,  he  turned  to  Edward  and  spoke  perfunctorily. 

' '  How's  Frances  ?" 

"Oh,  all  right!" 

But  Edward's  temples  began  to  throb;  he  had  half  a 
mind  to  tell  his  father  immediately  of  the  fire  and  have 
it  over  with.  How  should  he  word  it?  how  give  sane  ex 
pression  to  such  a  bewildering  event?  And,  as  he  stood 
bursting  with  vague  speech,  he  saw  again  those  wild 
flames  lighting  up  not  only  the  tragedy  of  his  life,  but 
revealing  a  new  Frances.  His  heart  grew  small  in  his 
breast;  he  was  cruelly  realizing,  as  never  before,  what  it 
meant  to  Frances  to  remain  barren,  to  stay  childless,  to 
have  an  empty  house  and  vacant  heart — to  brood  all  day 
over  a  discontented  clerk  who  did  not  thrill  her  when  he 
kissed  her.  But,  he  asked  himself  for  the  millionth  time, 
how  could  they  have  children  on  a  salary  of  twenty  dollars 
a  week?  And  the  one  solution  seemed  impossible.  How 
could  he  give  up  his  two  weeks'  hunting-trip — that  is, 
how  could  he  give  up  his  real  life? 

Marcellus,  the  Spanish  clerk,  once  confided  to  him  how 
his  wife  had  broken  her  health  by  ridding  herself  of  the 
unborn;  yet  Marcellus  deemed  it  wise  to  smoke  a  certain 
domestic  brand  of  ten-cent  cigar  "to  keep  up  with  the 
bunch"  and  be  a  "sport."  Was  the  hunting-trip  more 
justifiable? 

Then  he  noticed  his  father  opening  his  desk,  and 
decided  that  he  could  not  tell  the  impossible  news  now. 
Instead  he  remembered  family  courtesy. 

"How  are  the  folks?"  he  asked. 

Old  Ferg  spoke  lightly: 

"Mother  expects  you  and  Frances  and  Mr.  Trask  over 
Sunday  to  dinner,  as  usual,  but  she  told  me  to  tell  you 
she's  ordered  a  two-rib  roast.  She's  all  right,  but  I  guess 
I'm  a  bit  upset." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Edward,  carelessly,  sitting 
down  and  pulling  out  a  bunch  of  printed  tariff  sheets. 

109 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Pain  in  the  back  of  my  head  and  in  my  heart." 

Edward  had  heard  this  so  often  of  late  that  he  paid  no 
attention.  But  Kirby,  forced  to  listen,  turned  round  now 
and  looked,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  at  the  white-haired 
father.  He  had  just  seated  himself,  a  large  ledger  open 
at  his  right,  loose  sheets  at  his  left,  and  a  blotter  spread 
before  him.  This  blotter,  Kirby  noticed,  was  simply 
crusted  with  ink-spots.  The  old  clerk  set  a  pen  between 
his  teeth,  then  suddenly  grabbed  it,  struck  it  into  the  well, 
lifted  it,  slung  off  a  flash  of  ink  on  the  blotter,  leaned  to 
the  right,  and  wrote.  Each  dip  in  the  ink-well  repeated 
this  process.  The  machine,  thought  Kirby,  which  had 
run  smoothly  for  years  and  would  doubtless  run  on  for 
years  more,  had  begun  its  day's  work.  Kirby  felt  an 
intolerable  pity  for  this  man,  and  for  Edward,  and  for 
these  others,  and  for  himself.  Acutely  he  saw  the  life 
of  clerks. 

Now  a  gong  sounded;  idle  clerks  scurried  to  desks, 
hands  arranged  papers,  and  over  all  the  five  floors  of  the 
building  an  army  of  pen-points  began  the  march  of  their 
measureless  routine  across  the  clock-paced  hours.  In 
evitable  this:  a  host  of  grown  men  submitting  to  child's 
work  long-drawn-out,  work  that  wore  the  nerves  raw,  so 
that  at  night  they  craved  strong  drink,  the  game  of  chance, 
and  the  dive-met  woman. 

Edward,  more  than  Kirby,  knew  why  they  did  it,  even 
as  he  knew  why  he  did  it.  The  public  schools  had  made 
them  too  respectable  for  manual  work  and  unfit  for 
anything  else.  That  was  it!  Genteel!  genteel!  That 
was  the  word  that  directed  their  lives,  that  kept  them 
from  sinking  into  the  working  class,  down  among  the 
people  who  are  honestly  poor,  who  make  no  pretense  of 
prosperity,  that  made  them  cling  like  a  faded  fringe  to 
the  dust-dragged  skirt  of  the  middle  class.  A  faded 
fringe,  with  manicured  nails,  shaved  and  perfumed  face, 
smart  clothes,  a  "flat,"  not  a  "tenement,"  and  a  general 
veneer  to  hide  their  bitter  poverty.  What  was  the  future 

no 


CLERKS 

for  them  ?  Look  at  Old  Ferg  at  sixty  getting  forty  dollars 
a  week! 

An  icy  sleet  smote  the  rear  windows  behind  Bradsley's 
desk,  wind  howled  down  the  air-shaft,  but  the  steam 
bubbled  through  the  radiator-valve;  and  Edward  and 
his  father,  side  by  side,  worlds  apart,  and  Kirby  and  the 
dim  others,  toiled  busily  in  the  ever-increasing  warmth. 
Illimitable  time  seemed  to  engulf  them,  broken  only — at 
ten-thirty — by  cheerful  Howard,  secretary  to  the  traffic- 
manager,  a  robust  young  Westerner.  He  tapped  Old 
Ferg  on  the  shoulder. 

"What  should  the  rate  on  fourth  class  be,  Chitiwa 
to  Greensdale?" 

Old  Ferg  leaped  up,  still  the  automaton,  thumbing  off 
each  phrase  on  his  right-hand  fingers: 

"If,"  Kirby  heard,  dimly,  "the  rate  from  Chitiwa  to 
Paxley  is  forty-three  cents,  then  Chitiwa  to  Greensdale 
ought  to  be  forty-five.  The  Interstate  Commerce 
Commission — ' 

It  seemed  endless,  but  at  last  Howard  went,  and  illimit 
able  time  engulfed  them  again. 

The  sleet  smote,  the  radiator  bubbled,  the  pens 
scratched.  Then  queerly,  without  warning,  there  came  a 
hitch,  as  if  an  earthquake  had  swallowed  the  building. 
It  was  only  Old  Ferg  uttering  one  syllable,  but  it  held 
something  so  startlingly  intimate  and  unbusiness-like  that 
Edward  felt  the  blood  leave  his  cheeks.  His  father  had 
merely  cried  low: 

"Ed!" 

He  wheeled,  looked  sharply.  The  pen  dropped  from 
his  father's  hand,  and  slowly  the  wizened  clerk  crumpled 
in  his  chair,  face  purple.  The  convulsed  hands  seized  the 
chair-arms.  Edward  felt  his  own  feet  harnessed  to  the 
floor;  he  could  not  rise  for  a  moment. 

' '  What's  happened  ?"  he  muttered.     ' '  Look — look  out !' ' 

He  expected  his  father  to  go  into  convulsions,  and  tried 
to  hold  him  back  with  words.  The  old  clerk  gasped: 

in 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"My  head — fetch  me  home,  Eddy." 

The  "Eddy"  brought  an  unexpected  bitter  sob  to 
Edward's  throat.  Clenching  his  fists,  he  leaped  up,  con 
fused.  And  a  thrill  went  subtly  over  the  third  floor;  the 
human  drama  halted  the  army  of  pen-points;  clerks  began 
to  rise  here  and  there;  there  was  a  crowding-in,  a  startled 
whispering,  exultant  and  fearful:  "It's  Old  Ferg!  He's 
got  a  stroke!"  Kirby  looked  up,  half -crazed  with  a 
strange  delight;  but  only  half -drunken  Bradsley  acted, 
first  forcing  a  pocket-flask  between  the  clenched  teeth, 
then  sending  Marcellus  to  'phone  for  a  taxicab. 

The  flabby  faces  suddenly  became  intensely  human, 
tariffs  and  schedules  were  struck  underfoot,  and  a  lovely 
girdle  of  grief  and  exaltation  was  put  about  the  old 
clerk.  It  was  all  "Eddy,  get  him  home;  Eddy,  get  a 
specialist;  Eddy,  this  and  that." 

The  silent  son  had  taken  on  new  manhood  in  that 
place. 

Old  Ferg  smiled  back  at  their  eager  remarks:  "How 
d'yer  feel?  Better,  eh?  You're  all  right!  It'll  soon 
pass!  See  you  Monday!"  But  they  did  not  fool  him. 
As  four  lifted  him  up,  "  Good-by,"  he  murmured.  "Good- 
by." 

In  a  flash  his  meaning  to  the  office  became  apparent — 
the  fact  that  he  was  the  future  of  these  young  men,  that 

this  was  life for  them.  Some  of  them  cried  strangely 

as  he  was  borne  away.  The  machine  had  run  down  after 
forty -four  years  of  service.  Old  Ferg's  clerkship  was 
over. 

As  the  taxi  fled  up  the  skyscraper-canon  and  over 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  softly  bumping,  sleet  streaking  and 
dimming  the  windows,  and  the  icy  wind  breathing  sharply 
through  the  door  cracks,  Edward  held  his  father  in  his 
arms,  Kirby  sat  opposite  in  the  strange  gloom,  and  none 
of  them  spoke.  Pity  and  love  for  the  poor  thing  swelled 
the  son's  heart.  What  a  life!  What  an  end  to  it  all! 
This  poor  worn-out  drudge,  whose  grizzled  beard  tickled 

112 


CLERKS 

his  fingers.  What  was  it  all  for?  Just  that  tariffs  and 
schedules  in  intricate  thousands  might  die  in  that  head? 
Poor,  worn-out  clerk ! 

They  were  in  Brooklyn.  Up  the  mean  back  street  in 
the  tiny  frame  house  the  stout  mother,  the  unmarried 
sister  who  played  tunes  right  off,  were  waiting.  The 
wheels  grated  against  the  curb,  the  chauffeur,  dripping  ice, 
jerked  the  door  open,  and  sleet  fell  with  his  words. 

"Want  to  come  quick!" 

Swiftly  they  bore  him,  slipping  on  icy  pavement,  and 
up  ice-sheathed  steps.  The  chauffeur  rang  the  bell. 
They  waited,  and  the  stricken  man  groaned,  and  Edward 
felt  faint,  for  the  door  opened  on  a  crack;  it  was  his 
mother. 

"  Mother,  dad — "  he  began. 

"John!"  she  shrieked. 

Kirby  sat  in  the  cold  parlor  for  hours,  now  exalted,  now 
feeling  stunned.  It  was  unbelievable  that  this  thing  had 
happened ;  the  mystery  of  events  overwhelmed  him.  For  a 
year  he  had  sat  in  a  seemingly  endless  routine,  and  now  at 
once  an  earthquake-upheaval  had  changed  life  into  some 
thing  exciting,  dramatic,  wonderful.  And  last  night  there 
was  the  fire!  By  what  coincidence  could  two  such 
catastrophes  come  to  one  family  overnight?  Were  there 
prearranged  miracles  in  the  world?  Or  was  this  life,  a 
smoldering  in  a  family  for  years,  breaking  out  now  here, 
now  there,  at  the  moment  of  combustion  ?  How  lucky  that 
Edward  had  said  nothing  to  his  father  about  the  furniture ! 
He  was  spared  that,  at  any  rate!  But  what  would  come 
of  all  this?  Did  it  not  mean  merely  the  pinch  harder,  the 
misery  keener?  What  if  the  old  clerk  died?  At  any  rate, 
he,  Kirby,  was  done  with  such  an  existence;  the  world 
tragedy  that  underlay  its  smooth  pettiness  seemed  to 
explode  through  his  heart. 

Several  times,  chilled  to  the  bone,  he  decided  to  slip 
away;  he  did  not  belong  here.  Yet  he  felt  caught  in 

"3 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

strong  currents  that  bore  him  against  his  will.  He  stayed 
on;  darkness  came.  Then  some  sobbing  female  shuffled 
along  the  hall,  fumbled,  lit  the  hall  gas  -  jet,  and  passed 
on.  The  light  fell  across  the  dingy  parlor,  and  Kirby 
watched  it  illuminating  the  faded  pattern  of  the  carpet. 

All  at  once  he  heard  doors  opening  and  shutting  and 
muffled  sobbing.  For  a  moment  his  lips  twitched  bitterly 
and  his  heart  overflowed  painfully  in  his  breast.  Then  he 
heard  steps  on  the  stairs.  Could  it  be  Edward? 

He  went  out  in  the  hall.  Edward  was  descending;  and, 
looking  up,  he  saw  the  lean  face  transformed,  lit,  the 
eyes  wonderful.  A  blaze  of  power  was  in  the  features. 
,  "My  father  is  dead,"  said  Edward. 

And  a  sob  escaped  Kirby ;  but  he  did  not  know  then  or 
later  what  had  lit  up  the  lean  clerk's  face. 

It  had  been  a  simple,  a  universal  matter.  Edward  had 
sat  out  the  afternoon  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  dim,  familiar, 
bedroom,  with  center-jet  burning  low,  double  bed  and 
threadbare  furniture;  and  the  room  had  seemed  strange 
and  new  to  him.  He  sat  as  if  through  endless  time. 
The  windows  shook  and  rattled,  wind  whistled  in  the 
chimney,  and  spurts  of  smoke  came  through  the  open 
register.  The  doctor  had  been  leaning  over  the  bed. 
Edward  could  only  see  the  humped  covers  over  his  father's 
feet.  The  doctor  rose,  turned  softly,  and  nodded.  Ed 
ward  knew  what  it  meant.  He  pulled  out  his  watch  and 
saw  the  time  clearly — it  was  seven  minutes  after  six. 
He  rose  gently  and  tiptoed  across  the  room. 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  doctor,  "it's  over." 

"Tell  my  mother,"  said  Edward,  quietly. 

The  doctor  stepped  out.  Edward  was  alone.  He 
leaned  over  the  bed.  This  was  his  father,  and  yet  not 
his  father;  he  was  amazed  that  he  had  felt  pity  before. 
Suddenly  his  heart  was  lifted  with  awe  and  reverence. 
Whence  came  this  majesty  to  the  face  of  a  common  clerk  ? 
Was  it  possible  that  his  wizened  father  had  carried  about 

114 


CLERKS 

with  him,  under  schedules  and  ink-stains,  something  mar 
velous  and  benign  ?  Had  his  son  never  known  him?  Was 
there  not  something  great  in  an  old  clerk  slipping  away 
from  his  desk  and  the  measured  hours  to  go  on  this 
impossibly  wild  adventure? 

He  looked,  he  leaned,  he  touched  dry  lips  to  the  cold 
forehead,  and  he  cried  softly  like  a  lonely  child. 

Yet  even  then  an  odd  exultation  began  to  rise  in  his 

heart If  this  is  the  fate  of  man :  to  break  loose  from 

all  things,  and  risk  all  on  the  tremendous  peril  of  the 
Unknown,  why  wait  till  death  to  do  it? 

Through  slanting  sleet,  over  the  black  lot,  and  toward 
lonely  street-lamps  and  the  lights  of  Olsen's  house, 
Kirby  and  Edward  made  their  way;  and  Edward  was 
brimmed  with  the  excitement  of  bearing  great  news. 

"  Oh,  Fran,"  he  thought,  "  you'll  open  your  eyes  at  this !" 

They  tramped  up  the  stoop,  stamped  on  the  mat, 
opened  the  lower  door,  climbed  the  steps.  She  heard  them 
coming,  flung  wide  the  upper  door,  and  cried: 

"You're  late,  Ed!" 

Her  dark,  pale  face  in  the  half-light  was  passionate  with 
relief. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  quietly,  "but  I've  got  something  to  tell 
you." 

''What  is  -it?"  she  snapped,  sensing  something  tremen 
dous  in  his  tone. 

"It's  father—" 

"Father?"    She  had  expected  something  else. 

He  almost  smiled. 

"Got  a  stroke." 

"And  now — now?"  Her  voice  thrilled  with  a  sort  of 
tragic  pleasure.  After  months  of  gray  days,  at  last  some 
thing  red  and  bleeding.  What  though  it  was  tragic? 

Then  to  Edward's  amazement  and  Kirby's — and  hers — 
Edward  gave  a  lurch  forward,  buried  his  head  on  her 
shoulder,  and  sobbed  hoarsely. 

9  H5 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Dead,  Frances — he's  dead!" 

She  hugged  him  convulsively,  her  throat  choking  her. 
She  helped  him  into  the  warm  dining-room.  Then  he 
turned,  seized  her,  whispered,  strangely: 

"Frances." 

"Yes?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  wait  till  I  die." 

"Eddy,"  she  cried,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

They  stared  at  each  other,  exultation  in  their  eyes. 
Again  he  saw  the  woman  who  crouched  over  the  flaming 
furniture. 

"You  mean" — she  was  breathless — "we'll — leave  here 
—go  West?" 

"Yes — lumbering,  anything — man's  work." 

And  so  eleven  years  and  a  barren  future  were  set  on  fire 

and  sent  blazing  to  the  four  winds For  they  had 

learned  from  death  to  take  risks. 

And  Kirby  saw  all,  heard  alt.  Like  a  great  knife 
slashing,  his  bonds  were  cut;  he  was  free;  power  filled 
him.  He  was  human,  and  before  a  mighty  deed  he  became 
mighty.  He  could  have  laughed  and  cried  with  joy,  for 
he  was  done  with  drudgery. 


"  YOU  MEAN  WE'LL — LEAVE  HERE — GO  WEST?" 


XII 

ALTERCATION  WITH   A    LADY 

KIRBY  had  a  vivid  dream  that  night.     He  was  on  the 
sleeper  again,  coming  to  New  York,  and  the  traveling 
salesman  was  saying: 

"Wonderful,  ain't  it,  how  those  fellers  rose  to  the  top — 
messenger-boy  to  millionaire." 

And  Kirby,  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw  the  fire  of 
the  steel-mills.  And  he  was  thinking  over  again  that  those 
mills  might  yet  flame  for  him,  a  night  advertisement  in 
the  skies  of  America.  His  excitement  grew  tremendous. 
He  saw  the  great  city  lying  below  him  in  the  night,  the 
irregular  building-humped  darkness  showered  with  glit 
tering  lights,  miles  of  lights  beating  against  the  vast  star- 
flecked  sky.  He  was  to  take  that  teeming  metropolis  by 
storm,  for  Janice  had  said: 

"Kirby,  you  are  going  to  be  a  great  man.  I  give  you 
ten  years.  Even  then  you'll  only  be  thirty-four." 

.And  he  went  into  the  dazzling  room  of  the  throne,  and 
Mary  Watts  enfolded  him,  whispering: 

"You  are  the  conqueror  of  the  world." 

He  awoke,  pulsing  with  exultation.  He  leaped  out  of 
bed,  his  whole  being  crying  out  for  achievement  and 
action.  Now  he  was  himself  again,  powerful  with  a  huge 
crushing  strength  and  the  bull-headedness  that  broke 
blindly  through  opposition.  The  demon  of  greatness 
danced  through  his  brain. 

"I  know  I've  got  it  in  me,"  he  told  himself.  "I  could 
rip  up  the  whole  city  this  morning." 

117 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

And  he  thought  of  New  York  again  as  a  waterspout 
lifting  into  the  clouds,  and  he  a  drop  sucked  precipitously 
to  the  top.  Where  had  he  been  this  whole  year?  How 
absurd  to  accept  an  easy  defeat.  Well,  he  was  wiser  now, 
he  was  older,  he  knew  more  of  lif  e,  he  was ' '  onto  the  ropes ' ' ; 
once  again  he  would  plunge  in,  and,  beating  down  the 
opposition  of  others,  seize  upon  power.  These  other  men 
had  as  many  weaknesses  as  he;  and  if  he  were  armed  with 
his  will-power,  how  could  they  withstand  him?  He  was 
only  twenty-five;  he  was  fresh  and  new.  The  moment 
for  action  had  come. 

And  the  morning  seemed  to  bear  out  his  impulsive 
anticipations.  For  when  he  reached  the  office  he  found 
that  he  was  a  popular  hero.  The  third  floor  mobbed  him. 
A  death-notice  had  appeared  in  the  morning  papers,  and 
the  clerks  divined  that  Kirby  had  had  the  rare  luck  to 
be  in  at  the  finish. 

They  surrounded  him  with  funereal  gaiety,  and  his  gray 
eyes  flashed,  his  head  was  erect,  his  arms  folded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  speaking  from  independent  heights  to 
the  drudges,  "  the  old  man's  dead.  Died  at  seven  minutes 
past  six.  Ed  was  in  with  him  at  the  time.  No,  didn't  say 
a  word;  fell  asleep." 

"Well,"  said  Bradsley,  with  all  the  grace  of  half  an  hour 
in  the  company  of  Scotch  whisky,  "let's  take  up  a  collec 
tion,  boys,  and  buy  Old  Ferg  a  whopper  of  a  wreath." 
He  waved  his  hand  expressively.  '"We  Mourn  Our 
Loss' — roses  and  lilies  and  forget-me-nots." 

In  the  thrilling  silence  the  company  indulged  in  pro 
found  and  original  thought,  which,  at  last,  leaped  into 
utterance : 

"We  all  come  to  it  in  the  end,"  said  Marcellus. 

"Of  course,"  said  Bradsley,  sagely,  "he  couldn't  expect 
to  live  forever." 

"At  that,"  murmured  another,  "sixty  years  is  a  life 
time." 

A  fat  round  boy  spoke: 

118 


ALTERCATION    WITH    A    LADY 

"As  long  as  a  fellow  must  die,  he  couldn't  pick  an  easier 
way  than  that.  Quick  and  clean,  and  no  fussing  and  no 
rotting." 

"Gee!"  said  another — and  everybody  concurred  in 
this — "life's  a  funny  thing." 

"Wonder  who'll  get  his  job!"  murmured  Marcellus. 

But  Bradsley  sounded  the  deeper  note: 

"He  was  always  the  same — worked  hard,  knew  his 
business,  never  was  unkind  to  a  cat.  Sober  and  honest  and 
saving.  He  was  good,  was  Old  Ferg.  This  place  will  seem 
different  without  him." 

And  indeed  it  did.  The  closed  desk,  the  empty  chair 
gave  the  dull  ache  of  loss,  the  tragedy  of  change.  Fan 
tastic  mystery  engulfed  the  tariff  department,  and  after 
the  first  heartiness  of  morning,  induced  by  sleep  and 
breakfast,  there  was  a  bewildering  sense  of  a  wrong  world, 
of  an  inevitable  and  cruel  process  against  which  the  caught 
soul  struggled  vainly.  Clerking,  gambling,  dissipating 
might  be  petty  things,  but  clerks  were  marvelous  creatures 
emerging  from  infinite  darkness  and  passing  on  to  infinite 
darkness.  The  brightness  of  New  York  was  but  a  flash  on 
the  way,  as  if  a  starry  hand  dipped  them  in  the  flash  and 
took  them  out  again.  Yet  they  had  to  go  on  penning  the 
rate  from  Chitiwa  to  Paxley,  from  Council  Bluffs  to  Dead- 
wood.  Did  the  unillumined  Darkness  hear  their  pen- 
points  scratching? 

This  dull  feeling  of  amputation,  this  social  pain,  as  it 
were,  threatened  Kirby's  self -enlargement  more  than  once 
during  the  morning;  but  when  the  noon  gong  sounded  he 
buttoned  up  his  jacket,  straightened  his  tie,  patted  down 
the  wavy  hair  over  the  right  temple,  and  went  through  the 
crowding  clerks  to  Bradsley's  desk. 

Bradsley  was  lighting  his  noon  cigar,  half  of  which  he 
smoked  before  lunch  and  half  after. 

'  'Lo,  Trask !"  he  said.  Then  Kirby's  bearing  impressed 
him,  and  he  looked  up. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you  something,"   Kirby 

119 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

began.  He  stopped  and  blushed.  In  spite  of  every 
thing,  the  moment  grew  ominously  important;  he  was 
about  to  snap  the  smooth  belting  of  a  year. 

"Always  glad  to  hear,"  Bradsley  muttered,  uneasily. 

"You  see,"  blurted  Kirby,  "I've  got  to  leave  here." 

Bradsley's  forehead  wrinkled. 

"What  do  you  mean?    Leave  your  job ?" 

"Yes." 

"What's  up?    Pay  too  low?" 

"Well,  no—" 

"Got  some  other  job?" 

"Not  just  yet,  but—" 

"Treated  you  right,  haven't  we?" 

"Yes." 

"No  kick  coming?" 

"No—" 

Bradsley  leaned  toward  him,  beaming. 

"Then  don't  be  a  damn  fool.  You're  good  for  eighteen 
by  spring — latest,  fall.  Bellows,  General  Traffic-Manager, 
started  as  a  clerk.  Great  chance  for  the  unusual  man. 
Just  take  another  think,. eh?" 

Kirby's  eyes  flashed,  and  he  caught  his  man  in  the 
pupils,  whereupon  Bradsley  looked  away  quickly.  Kirby's 
voice  was  as  decisive  as  ten-pins  dropping. 

"No,  Mr.  Bradsley,  I'm  leaving." 

"Sure,"  murmured  Bradsley,  nervously. 

It  was  a  test  of  power.  Yes,  Kirby  had  it  in  him.  He 
rose  gaily  and  went  to  lunch.  He  felt  now  an  inde 
pendence  that  was  delightful.  There  was  something 
heroic  in  leaving  warm  security  and  plunging  into  the 
bitter 'dark — a  sublime  foolhardiness;  but  he  was  going 
to  do  it.  With  his  year's  savings — they  ran  to  less  than 
sixty  dollars — and  with  the  hard-shelled  strength  that  now 
seemed  his,  he  felt  that  he  could  beat  down  a  hundred 
Bradsleys. 

Effort  that  afternoon  seemed  a  waste  of  time,  so  Kirby 
didn't  over-indulge.  He  would  begin  to-morrow  morning 

120 


ALTERCATION    WITH    A. LADY 

by  bullying  the  Brain-Brokers;  they  would  find  that  he 
was  not  the  young  man  of  a  year  ago.  Besides,  he  him 
self  would  advertise;  and  in  the  broadcast  pen-scratching, 
which  seemed  already  to  have  forgotten  Old  Ferg,  whose 
loss  meant  merely  one  pen-point  the  less,  Kirby  secretly 
wrote  samples,  as: 

A  Young  Man  of  education  and  native  power  who  wants  a 
job  that  is  big — the  bigger  the  better — 

which  words  set  him  dreaming,  until  he  mentally  added: 
"This  young  man  is  a  born  master  of  men;  he  craves  the 
chance  to  swing  some  big  enterprise  in  the  American  con 
quest  of  the  commerce  of  the  world;  he  wants  to  organize 
industry  into  an  Empire  of  the  West."  Finally  the  magic 
word  "Napoleon"  came  to  him.  He  leaned  against  the 
desk,  drunk.  He  saw  himself  sitting  at  a  mahogany  desk 
in  a  splendid  office,  such  as  the  express-company  President 
had;  a  stenographer  sat  at  his  left,  a  high  official  at  his 
right;  reports  and  mail  were  stacked  before  him;  he  was 
telephoning  Chicago.  On  the  wall  hung  a  map  showing 
branches  of  the  industry  all  over  the  world;  and  there  were 
photographs  of  the  mills.  A  hundred  thousand  men  were 
under  his  generalship,  and  he  had  a  power  of  life  and  death 
over  these  and  remote  populations. 

He  could  imagine  what  these  clerks  would  say  then — 
yes,  and  what  Trent  would  say  then.  But  he  would  be 
as  inaccessible  to  these  as  a  star. 

He  took  a  down-town  supper  that  night,  for  he  was 
bound  for  Mrs.  Waverley.  He  needed  to  tell  some  one 
who  would  share  his  vision,  and  back  him  with  belief. 
Aunt  Annie  knew;  yes,  she  alone  knew.  His  supper  ran 
to  seventy  cents — more  than  he  had  ever  spent  before; 
and  when  the  waiter  wisely  brought  change  of  the  dollar 
in  dimes,  Kirby  felt  so  capitalistic  that  he  waved  his 
hand  and  said: 

"Keep  it!" 

121 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Whereupon  the  waiter  helped  him  on  with  hat  and  coat 
as  if  he  were  an  invalid. 

The  night  was  soft,  the  air  wet  with  the  melting  of  the 
snow,  and  a  faint  mist  went  up  and  gave  halos  to  the 
lamps.  Emerging  at  Twenty-sixth  Street,  Kirby  found 
a  heavy  slush  slapping  under  his  rubbers,  and  upper 
Broadway  was  a  fairyland  of  vaporous  fire.  There  was  just 
the  beginning  of  the  night  stir — glide  of  cab  and  the  slosh 
of  little  feet  with  skirts  held  high.  After  two  steady 
weeks  of  the  suburb  he  heard  again  the  calling  of  the 
women,  an  added  excitement.  He  was  not  joyous,  he  was 
not  happy;  it  was  a  spirit  of  hard  triumph  and  dizzying 
enterprise.  And  the  city  under  the  mist  seemed  like  a 
brilliant  gem  to  be  fastened  in  his  shirt-front. 

The  landlady  opened  the  door  for  him. 

"Well!"  she  said,  wiping  her  red-rimmed  eyes  with  her 
apron.  "You're  a  stranger.  Must  be  two  weeks  now." 

"Is  Mrs.  Waverley  in?"  he  asked,  with  hard  excitement. 

The  abruptness  cut  her  off. 

"She's  been  in  a  week  waiting  for  you — I  guess." 

He  hurried  up  the  stairs,  stepped  with  manly  pounding 
stride  down  the  hall  to  the  open  door. 

"Aunt  Annie!"  he  called. 

The  gas-stove  burned  at  her  feet,  the  lamp  at  her  side, 
and  in  the  softening  radiance  she  sat,  her  gray  eyes  lifting. 
Relief  and  happiness  were  in  her  voice. 

"Kirby?" 

He  came  in;  and  she  rose,  taking  his  hand.  She  was 
going  to  ask  him  where  he  had  been  this  fortnight,  but 
she  saw  his  hard,  flushed  face,  his  brilliant  eyes,  his  new 
erectness  of  carriage.  He  was  a  new  Kirby. 

"Why,"  she  murmured,  "what  has  happened,  Kirby?" 

"Aunt  Annie,"  he  cried,  squeezing  her  hand,  "I've 
chucked  my  job!" 

She  felt  the  tingle  of  a  new  excitement. 

"Your  job?     Really?" 

"Yes.     I'm  through.     Sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you!" 


ALTERCATION    WITH    A    LADY 

She  sat  down  with  mingled  emotions.  There  was 
something  unpleasant  about  Kirby  this  evening;  besides, 
the  news  was  unexpected;  and  she  reflected,  too,  that  he 
had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  consult  with  her  in 
advance. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "you've  found  something  else, 
then." 

"No.     But  I'm  going  to." 

Her  heart  pained  her. 

"Then  why  did  you  leave?" 

He  was  aware  now  that  she  was  vaguely  displeased; 
and  he  thought:  "There's  the  woman  of  it.  Just  at  the 
moment  I  need  her  most  she  flunks."  It  made  expression 
hard. 

"Oh,  you  see,  it's  like  this!  You  know  Old  Ferg — 
Edward's  father — well,  he  got  a  stroke  yesterday  and  died ; 
and  so  Ed  and  his  wife  are  leaving  for  the  West.  If  they 
could  leave,  I  could." 

Mrs.  Waverley  looked  at  him,  amazed.  He  had  spoiled 
his  case  in  the  stating  of  it.  All  the  grandeur  behind  the 
last  two  days  was  belittled  into  something  sordid.  Mrs. 
Waverley  had  been  told  more  than  once  of  the  old  man; 
this  brutal  statement  of  his  death  shocked  her  inexpres 
sibly.  But  she  only  murmured,  with  forced  tranquillity: 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  your  leaving?" 

"Oh,"  he  said  in  an  off-hand  way,  "I  made  up  my  mind 
to  quit  and  go  out  after  something  big.  I'm  ripe  for  it. 
And  I  know  I  can  do  it." 

"But  there's  nothing  in  view." 

"There  will  be." 

"You  tried  that  a  year  ago." 

"I'm  a  year  older  now.     I  know  the  game." 

"And  what  sort  of  a  job  can  you  get — with  your 
experience?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Neither,"  she  said,  with  a  strange  tremor  in  her  voice, 
"do  I." 

123 


He  glanced  at  her  then,  and  saw  that  her  cheeks  were 
pink,  her  eyes  dangerously  flashing.  It  nettled  him;  it 
all  came  down  to  the  fact  that  women  were  unreliable. 

Then  this  gentle  woman  spoke  with  an  anger  that  was 
astounding. 

"Kirby,  I  don't  like  you  when  you  talk  and  act  this  way. 
It's  not  like  you." 

He  felt  hot  all  over. 

"Does  any  one  expect  me  to  be  a  drudge  all  my  life? 
I've  got  to  make  a  break  some  time." 

"  I've  told  you  that  right  along.  But  this  isn't  the 
way." 

"What's  the  way?"  Involuntarily  rudeness  crept  into 
his  voice. 

Her  eyes  grew  moist,  but  she  spoke  sharply. 

"Just  as  I  told  you — you  must  train  for  something  else. 
You  can't  expect  the  world  to  be  anxious  to  get  incom 
petence  and  inexperience.  You've  got  to  acquire  some 
specialty  to  lift  you  above  the  level  of  the  clerks." 

"Edward  and  his  wife — "  he  began. 

"What's  good  for  them,"  she  interrupted,  "may  not 
be  good  for  you.  Besides,  you're  not  leaving  New  York ; 
you're  just  one  among  thousands  of  untrained  young 
men." 

He  winced;  she  had  never  spoken  before  with  such 
directness.  It  made  him  angrier. 

"And  what  can  I  train  for?" 

"Well,  even — why,  even  shorthand.  Didn't  you  tell  me 
a  year  ago  that  if  you  had  known  stenography  you  could 
have  become  secretary  to  Mr.  Harrington?" 

He  started  up,  plunged  his  hands  into  his  trousers 
pockets  and  walked  up  and  down. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  exasperated,  "I  was  green  then. 
There's  nothing  in  it." 

' '  What  of  it  ?  Many  men  start  that  way.  It's  a  handle, 
at  least,  to  some  of  the  big  things." 

' '  Now,  when ' ' — he  paused — ' '  could  I  find  time  for  that  ?' ' 

124 


ALTERCATION    WITH    A    LADY 

"At  night.  Your  work  doesn't  tire  you,  and  you  might 
do  it  instead  of —  She  was  going  to  add  "running 
around,"  but  she  desisted. 

He  understood,  however,  and  grew  a  little  pale. 

"I  gave  up  my  job  to-day,"  he  said,  in  a  hard  voice. 
"So  we  might  as  well  think  of  something  else." 

She  spoke  slowly: 

"I  think  you  could  get  it  back." 

"Ask  Bradsley,  after  to-day?    No;  I'm  not  a  beggar." 

She  rose  then. 

"Kirby,"  she  said,  "it's  a  big  thing  to  admit  you're 
wrong  when  you  are  wrong." 

"But  I'm  not  wrong." 

Then  there  was  a  desperate  silence.  He  could  not 
imagine  himself  leaving  the  room  without  saying  good 
night  and  shaking  her  hand.  Yet  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  do  it.  He  stood  there,  head  high,  face  hot — 
a  powerful  belligerent.  She  looked  at  him,  and  then  she 
suppressed  a  smile. 

"Think  it  over,"  she  said,  quietly.  "Now  it's  getting 
late,  and  you  won't  be  home  for  over  an  hour.  Good 
night." 

He  took  her  hand  limply,  tried  to  say  something  and 
failed,  stumblingly  seized  on  hat  and  coat,  and  left.  And 
he  felt  that  he  had  dealt  her  a  blow  in  the  face,  that  he 
had  been  inexpressibly  rude  to  her.  Pride  fell  clattering 
around  him;  dreams  of  conquest  crumbled;  he  was 
merely  an  ordinary  fellow  who  had  lost  his  temper. 

And  Mrs.  Waverley  was  thinking: 

"Goodness,  if  he  ever  gets  going,  nothing  will  stop 
him!  But  I'd  be  sorry  for  him  and  those  about  him.  It 
would  make  him  monstrous." 

Yet  she  laughed  delightedly,  for  she  remembered  how 
he  stood  there  too  high  and  mighty  and  too  angered  to  bid 
her  good-by.  She  was  very  fond  of  Kirby 

Kirby,  in  the  mean  time,  got  no  further  than  Broadway. 
It  was  only  a  little  after  nine,  and  he  remembered  a  "  Guth- 

125 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

rie  Commercial  School ' '  on  West  Twenty-third  Street.  He 
hurried  over.  The  school  was  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
corner  building,  a  plate-glass  loft  above  the  flaring  shop 
fronts.  He  ascended  the  wooden  steps  and  entered  the 
little  office.  A  girl  with  a  golden  pompadour  and  discon 
certing  blue  eyes  looked  up  from  a  flat  desk. 

"Mr.  Guthriein?" 

"Do  you  want  to  enter  the  school?" 

"I'm  inquiring." 

"  He's  dictating  in  the  next  room.  You  can  step  in  and 
wait  for  him." 

Kirby  went  in.  Five  gas-jets  burned,  the  air  was  stuffy 
and  slightly  perfumed  with  the  cheap  cologne  of  the 
students,  and  the  plate-glass  window  was  misty.  At  two 
long  board-tables,  supported  by  wooden  horses,  sat 
fifteen  or  sixteen  girls  and  boys  on  kitchen  chairs  busily 
penciling  note-books.  Often  they  stuck  the  pencils  in 
their  mouths,  and  when  he  entered  a  phalanx  of  girl-eyes 
wheeled  round  on  him.  But  Mr.  Guthrie,  walking  with 
long-legged  strides  up  and  down  the  bare  floor,  never 
noticed.  He  was  a  tall  Englishman,  with  flowing 
mustaches  and  mild,  blue  eyes.  His  left  hand  held  a 
watch,  and  his  right  a  text-book.  He  was  dictating  slowly 
and  studying  the  second-hand. 

"HOLBROOK  &  Co., 

"Indianapolis,  Ind. 

"GENTLEMEN, — In  reply  to  your  favor  of  the  isth 
inst.,  we  beg  to  say  that  car-load  lots  of  lumber  at  this 
season  are  quoted  in  the  market  at  an  advance  of,  etc." 

At  the  end  of  the  letter  Mr.  Guthrie  looked  up  and 

spoke  sadly: 

"That  was  only  at  the  rate  of  fifty  words  a  minute." 
Kirby  now  noticed  that  the  girls  stuck  pencils  in  their 

artificial  hair  and  that  many  were  strenuously  chewing 

126 


ALTERCATION    WITH    A    LADY 

gum.     They  eyed  him  curiously  and  gossiped  together. 
He  saw,  too,  on  the  wall  a  placard: 

On  the  Great  Clock  of  Time  there  is  but  One  Word — Now. 
And  another: 

NAPOLEON  ON  CONFIDENCE 

Be  happy.  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  easily  affected. 
Take  care  of  your  health.  Fear  nothing,  and  never  doubt 
success. 

This  American  optimism  made  him  uneasy.  It  was 
getting  altogether  too  commonplace  for  him. 

Then  Mr.  Guthrie  approached  him. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  me?" 

"Yes — about  entering  the  school." 

Mr.  Guthrie  turned  to  his  students. 

"You  can  transcribe  now." 

They  shuffled  out  noisily,  laughing  and  chatting,  and 
Kirby  heard  in  an  adjoining  room  the  immense  clatter  of 
typewriting  machines.  He  sat  down  beside  the  sad 
Englishman. 

"What  are  the  terms?"  he  asked. 

"Ten  a  month." 

"And  for  how  long?" 

"It  depends  on  you.  We  have  bright  pupils  who  do  it 
in  four  or  five." 

"You  get  a  position  for  each  graduate?" 

"Try  to.  That,  too,  depends  on  the  pupil.  You've 
got  to  be  up  to  the  mark." 

"And  when  could  I  begin?" 

"Anytime.     I'll  give  you  a  circular." 

Kirby 's  heart  had  been  sinking;  now  it  seemed  to  drop 
out  of  his  diaphragm  and  vanish  into  an  abyss.  Clerking 
was  bad  enough,  but  to  shut  himself  in  with  these  gum- 
chewing,  cheap-scented  girls  and  these  slangy  impudent 

127 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

boys  was  asking  too  much  of  him.  The  pettiness  of  such 
dictations,  such  mass-typewriting!  And  that  afternoon 
he  had  imagined  the  mahogany  office  and  the  Napoleonic 
leadership. 

Yet  the  next  morning  a  haggard  young  man  came 
humbly  to  Bradsley. 

"Mr.  Bradsley,"  he  said,  "I  made  a  mistake  yesterday. 
I  shouldn't  have  given  up  my  job.  Is  it  too  late  to  stay  ?" 

Bradsley  jumped  up  and  thumped  him. 

"Glad  to  hear  it.     Glad  you  came  to  your  senses." 

And  (that  evening  a  timid  fellow  came  into  Mrs.  Waver- 
ley's  room. 

"Aunt  Annie,"  he  said,  with  quivering  lips  and  liquid 
eyes,  "I'm  keeping  the  job,  and — I'm  going  to  learn  short 
hand." 

She  rose,  laughing  strangely.  She  seized  his  hand  in 
both  of  hers. 

"You've  done  a  big  thing,  Kirby.  And  it  means  you 
are  going  to  be  really  a  great  man." 

Joy  came  to  them,  fresh,  reconciling  joy;  they  over 
flowed  with  tender  and  wistful  comradeship.  And  Kirby 
never  forgot  her  words. 


XIII 

THE   SLOW   WAY 

FOUR  or  five  months,  Guthrie  had  said.  But  when 
Kirby  asked  for  a  diploma  at  the  end  of  the  fourth 
the  sad  Englishman  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  you're  not  fit  yet.  I  couldn't 
possibly  send  you  out  for  another  month." 

At  the  expiration  of  the  fifth  he  heard  the  same  news, 
and  so  at  the  end  of  the  sixth.  He  grew  suspicious,  he 
felt  that  Guthrie  was  making  money  out  of  him ;  but  he 
needed  a  diploma.  It  was  autumn  before  he  got  it. 

These  months  were  a  burden  to  him.  He  now  loathed 
his  clerkship  with  the  same  bitter  intensity  that  Edward 
had  shown;  it  was  a  daily  torture.  He  could  only 
scratch  away  savagely,  sustained  by  a  feeling  that  in  ten 
days  or  a  couple  of  weeks  he  would  be  free.  And  he 
became  irritable  and  bad-tempered,  an  impatient,  growling 
young  man.  The  other  clerks  began  to  fear  him,  espe 
cially  after  one  hot  morning.  Bradsley  had  not  yet  come ; 
but  Tom,  Bradsley's  big  athletic  son,  was  sitting  at  his 
desk,  and  the  fifty  others  lounged  near.  As  Kirby  passed 
the  desk  Tom  muttered  audibly: 

"Trask  would  be  all  right  if  he  didn't  have  a  swelled 
head." 

Kirby  turned  on  him  and  thundered: 

"Get  up,  and  I'll  beat  you." 

Tom  arose  with  alacrity,  and  in  a  second  they  were  at 
it  all  over  the  floor,  knocking  down  stools,  dislodging 
clerks.  Then  Kirby  closed  in  bull-headedly  and  knocked 

129 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

the  big  fellow  down.  He  stayed  down,  ominously. 
Frightened  clerks  administered  whisky;  but  Kirby  stood, 
fists  ready,  glowering  at  the  roomful. 

Luckily  Tom  came  to  before  his  father  entered,  and 
nothing  was  said.  Marcellus,  however,  summed  up  the 
general  attitude: 

"Gee!  that  Trask  is  a  savage." 

Kirby  felt  relieved  for  several  days.  He  had  shown 
publicly  his  feeling  for  the  whole  place.  And  after  that 
the  clerks  left  him  alone,  a  proud,  impatient,  haughty 
fellow,  dropping  venom  from  his  pen.  The  pity  was  he 
couldn't  write  in  red  ink  or  blood. 

Fortunately  he  was  very  busy  five  nights  a  week  at 
school.  Ardently,  then,  on  Saturday  night  he  went  to 
theater  and  the  Tenderloin,  and  on  Sunday  roughed 
around  with  tedious  Marston;  for  he  was  now  back 
at  the  boarding-house.  The  Fergusons  had  long  since 
departed,  striking  out  for  new  Oklahoma,  where  by 
lot  they  secured  a  bit  of  ground  in  a  projected  town  and 
lived  gaily  in  a  tent  with  thousands  of  other  settlers  while 
the  frame  houses  went  up.  Mrs.  Waverley,  too,  had 
gone.  It  was  most  unexpected,  but  she  had  been  offered 
the  position  of  principal  in  the  girls'  seminary  in  her 
Kentucky  home-town,  an  offer  too  good  to  refuse.  She 
and  Kirby  corresponded. 

Worst  of  all,  Kirby's  mother  became  seriously  ill  in 
the  summer,  and  finally  he  was  summoned.  But  when  he 
reached  Trent  she  was  already  dead,  and  he  followed  the 
coffin  to  the  little  cemetery.  Trent  seemed  a  pitiable 
place,  amazingly  shrunken  and  provincial,  full  of  small 
gossip  and  prying  eyes.  The  Haddens  were  away,  the 
newspaper  had  changed  hands,  and  the  people  who  knew 
him  greeted  him  without  ardor;  he  walked  among  them, 
a  failure,  a  "bad  lot."  Even  his  sisters  seemed  petty. 
The  eldest  had  married  and  now  lived  in  Chicago;  the 
youngest  planned  to  teach  in  Pueblo,  Colorado. 

He  was  terriblv  shocked  at  the  sight  of  his  mother's  face. 

130 


THE    SLOW    WAY 

He  had  always  thought  of  it  as  round  and  comely,  the  eyes 
full  of  smothered  power.  Now  it  was  a  mass  of  wasted 
wrinkles,  and  he  could  not  imagine  that  those  lips  had 
once  kissed  him.  Life  seemed  sharply  tragic;  all  came 
to  this.  And  he  knew  she  had  died  disappointed  in  him, 
that  he  had  brought  her  only  heart-sickness  and  trouble. 
He  scourged  himself  because  his  letters  to  her  had  been 
cold  and  perfunctory. 

And  so  he  returned  to  the  city,  dressed  in  black,  re 
morseful,  restless,  lonesome.  But  as  he  worked  on  he 
began  to  be  absorbed  by  the  school.  The  bright,  thin  life 
of  these  girls  and  boys  seemed  pitiable.  It  was  here  as 
in  all  the  commercial  schools.  A  lot  of  school-children 
who  were  ignorant  of  even  the  primary  requirements  of 
commerce,  such  as  arithmetic,  spelling,  and  grammar,  were 
here  ground  through  a  rapid  mill  that  gave  them  skilled 
ringers  without  skilled  minds.  So  the  city  was  flooded 
with  cheap  workers,  most  of  whom  sank  into  the  ranks 
of  copyists  earning,  by  the  tedious  and  lengthy  toil  of  typ 
ing  addresses  on  circulars  or  filling  in  typewritten  blanks, 
a  salary  of  not  more  than  a  dollar  a  day.  A  thousand 
addresses,  for  instance,  brought  a  dollar.  The  type 
writer  employment  agencies  were  crushed  with  applicants 
who  daily  sat  herded  together  waiting  an  opportunity, 
or  pounded  the  streets  desolately,  looking  in  at  shop 
windows,  or  mobbed  any  office  that  had  advertised.  In 
the  end  many  had  to  go  into  the  department  stores. 
Like  the  clerks,  they  were  raised  to  something  higher 
without  the  education  to  sustain  them.  But  a  swift,  half- 
baked  commercialism  cheerfully  ground  them  out  and 
took  their  ten  dollars  a  month. 

He  got  to  like  them  in  a  way,  but  he  thought  that  a  talk 
on  manners,  gum-chewing,  loud  talking,  clean  nails,  tidy 
hair,  might  have  helped. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  school  was  cheerful.  He  was 
taught  that  "Specialization  is  the  trend  of  the  times"; 
that ' '  the  fingers  must  be  trained  until  they  become  supple, 

10  131 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

I 

strong,  efficient";  that  you  must  "never  miss  the  big 
chance,  yet  never  lose  sight  of  details";  that  in  typing 
"inflexibility  is  stagnation";  and  there  was  a  wealth  of 
poetry  in  this: 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  how  the  master  violinist  holds 
his  bow?  The  wrist  is  so  flexible  that  it  might  be  hung 
with  a  single  silken  strand — yet  there  is  power  there,  but 
it  is  controlled  power." 

He  liked  to  think  of  violin-playing  in  hanging  his  fingers 
over  the  keys  in  speed  practice,  when  over  and  over  again 
at  a  speed  of  one  hundred  words  a  minute  he  typed  this 
famous  line: 
•     "Paul  hit  the  yellow  cur  a  whack  on  the  head." 

A  sentence,  according  to  Guthrie,  that  tunes  the  typist 
up  to  the  speed  key. 

Or  the  classic:  "Now  is  the  time  for  all  good  men  to 
come  to  the  aid  of  the  party." 

Or  this  masterly  composition,  which  holds  amazingly 
every  letter  of  the  alphabet: 

"The  quick  brown  fox  jumps  over  the  lazy  dog." 

These  sentences  ran  through  his  head  at  night;  ever 
afterward,  looking  at  a  typewriter,  his  lips  mumbled  them. 

And  as  to  the  stenography,  he  got  a  habit  which  never 
left  him,  of  tracing  with  his  finger,  on  desk  or  table,  short 
hand  characters  when  he  heard  people  formally  speaking. 

Yet,  withal,  the  noisy  typewriter-room,  the  stuffy 
dictation-room  exercised  subtle  charms  over  him.  He  was 
fascinated  by  the  typewriting  machine,  which  seemed,  as 
indeed  it  was,  a  wonderful  thing :  painful  pen-scrawling  of 
ages  back  to  hieroglyphs  on  stone  now  superseded  by 
the  light  touch  of  keys  and  the  swift  emergence  of  neat 
and  line-locked  print;  but,  stranger  still  was  shorthand, 
which  made  the  fingers  nearly  as  fleet  as  thought,  surely 
as  fleet  as  speech;  the  words  dropped  from  the  dictator's 
lips  to  the  stenographer's  note-book,  caught  on  the  fly,  as 
it  were,  and  saved  in  their  very  arrangement.  Out  of  this 
grew  the  speed  of  modern  business,  which  made  it  possible 

132 


THE    SLOW   WAY 

for  an  executive  to  weave  gigantic  correspondences  be 
tween  himself  and  the  world  and  yet  be  free  for  other 

work And  the  typed  screed  flew  from  sender  to 

receiver,  a  permanent  record Kirby  was  to  be  one 

of  the  flying  shuttles  in  this  miracle.  It  seemed  to  add 
to  business  a  touch  of  the  Arabian  nights — part  of  the 
new  mysteries  of  transportation  and  telephone  and 
telegraph  and  all  the  instruments  that  draw  earth's  ends 
together  into  a  common  council-room,  a  sort  of  town- 
hall-meeting  of  the  world Space  was  shrinking, 

time  extending,  and  a  vague  brotherhood  loomed  through 
the  crass  interweaving  of  buy-and-sell 

And  so  the  months  passed.  Finally,  in  September, 
Guthrie  gave  Kirby  a  diploma  with  an  affectionate  pat 
on  the  back. 

"Mr.  Trask,"  he  said,  "you're  the  finest  mind  I've  met 
on  this  side  the  Atlantic." 

It  was  reminiscent  of  a  remark  by  Professor  Had- 
den. 

On  the  next  morning  Kirby  got  leave  of  absence  from 
Bradsley  and  went  to  the  Brain-Brokers.  The  same 
gantlet  of  Ready-Made  Young  Men  lustrously  brightened 
the  entrance-hall;  there  were  faces  there  he  had  seen 
before;  the  same  office-boy  barred  the  way,  but  Mr. 
Cobb  had  departed.  In  his  place  was  a  superb  young 
man  of  the  Gibson  type. 

However,  the  phonograph-record  was  the  same;  only 
the  horn  was  changed. 

"Atwood's,"  he  said,  "is  a  clearing-house  for  Brains — 
the  link  between  the  Job  and  the  Man.  You  see,  what  we 
try  to  do  is  find  the  Man " 

As  the  bright  formulas  were  reeled  off  by  this  com 
fortable  mouthpiece  Kirby  felt,  with  a  new  thrill  of  power, 
how  he  had  grown  since  he  sat  here  in  this  same  chair  two 
years  since,  a  young  man,  shy  and  heart-sick,  overwhelmed 
with  cheap  talk. 

He  broke  in  with  cold  impatience. 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Mr.  Dwight,  I  know  that,  but  I've  come  here  for  a 
job.  Have  you  anything  open?" 

The  record  stopped  as  if  the  needle  were  stuck.  Mr. 
Dwight  felt  uncomfortable  before  the  gray  eyes.  He 
puffed  on  his  cigar,  thwarted. 

"Eh,  you've  been  a  clerk,  then?" 

"Yes.     But  I  want  something  better." 

Then  Mr.  Dwight  brightened,  as  if  sudden  light  soaked 
his  brain-cells. 

"Know  shorthand?" 

"I  do,"  said  Kirby,  grimly. 

"Lucky,  that!  We  have  a  rare  opening — a  secretary 
ship  to  J.  J.  Harrington,  proprietor  of  Harrington's 
Magazine,  the  New  Storage  Battery  Street  Car  Company, 
the  Harmon  Airship  Company.  You  know  J.  J.,  don't  you  ?" 

Kirby  had  a  feeling  of  unreality,  as  if  time  had  stood 
still.  At  the  same  time  he  smelt  a  rat.  What  was  this 
perpetual  bright  secretaryship  that  dangled  before  each 
applicant? 

He  grinned  at  Mr.  Dwight. 

"You  had  the  same  job  open  when  I  was  here  last." 

The  Gibson  face  lacked  human  expression.  There  was 
a  cough  and  a  hasty, 

"Surely.  The  man  who  went  in  then  has  by  now 
gone  on,  gone  up — who  knows?" 

Well,  Kirby  didn't  know,  and  neither,  of  course,  did  he 
know  that  one  couldn't  throw  a  stone  in  New  York  with 
out  hitting  a  J.  J.  secretary. 

"Oh,  I'll  try  it,"  said  Kirby,  with  grim  condescension. 
He  began  to  think  that  J.  J.  was  a  modern  myth  gener 
ated  by  commercial  hysteria. 

So  he  tried  it,  ferrying  that  morning  to  Long  Island  City 
and  getting  a  train  out  to  Inwood.  He  bought  a  copy  of 
Harrington's  at  the  station  news-stand  and  spent  the  three- 
fourths-of-an-hour  ride  in  studying  possibilities.  The 
magazine  was  cheap,  crisp,  popular,  sprinkled  with 
illustrations,  a  lean  slice  of  reading-matter  between  thick 

134 


THE    SLOW    WAY 

chunks  of  advertising.  There  were  five  short  stories  with 
titles  and  underlines  indicating  love,  adventure,  horse 
play,  and  "problem";  several  bright  articles,  garnished 
with  photographs,  on  musical  comedies,  how  shoes  are 
made,  the  conquest  of  the  air,  women  geniuses;  some 
nondescript  thumpety-thump  love- verse;  a  serial  of  au 
tomobile  love ;  and  a  picture  section  of  stage  beauties.  It 
was  all  clever,  readable,  and  slightly  sensational,  and  it  was 
indubitably  American ;  the  reading-matter  merely  a  flashy 
excuse  for  that  great  modern  institution  of  Advertising 
whereby  the  manufacturer  displayed  his  wares  in  obscure 
corners  and  over  the  immense  distances  of  the  States. 
Each  copy  of  the  magazine  was  a  clever  salesman,  and 
Kirby  understood  that  Harrington's  had  a  circulation  of 
four  hundred  thousand.  Four  hundred  thousand  sales 
men  creating  and  stimulating  appetites  and  needs.  For 
these  advertising  pages  were  gay  and  terse,  pungent  with 
excitable  newness.  It  was  a  joy  to  bathe  in  such  endless 
optimism  and  enterprise  and  to  know  that  the  whole 
world  was  eagerly  begging  to  serve  you  for  the  sake  of 
your  health  and  happiness.  It  inspired  confidence  in 
a  country  palpably  hustling,  alive,  groaning  with  wealth 
it  wanted  to  share  with  the  reader,  secrets  it  desired  to 
impart  (at  two  or  three  dollars  per),  advice  it  languished 
to  give. 

"Were  it  not  for  Acid  Mouth  your  teeth  should  last  100 

years.  .  .  .  Dentacore." 

"The  John  Mattress  smile  in  the  morning  means  a  day  of 

clean  work  and  clear  thinking." 

"Cheer  up!    Get  a  SOG.  bottle  of  Kleenit  anywhere." 

"Just  ask  your  doctor  what  he  thinks  of  Jaundice-Juice." 

"Don't  Meddle  with  a  Corn.     Don't  Pare  it." 

"Why  Kill  Yourself  by  Smoking  a  Strong  Pipe?" 

"A  sheep  wears  his  wool  on  the  Outside.    That's  where  it 

is  in  Warren  Underwear." 

"Tell  me  your  foot  troubles.     It  will  ease  Your  Mind;  /  will 

ease  Your  Feet." 

135 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Woman's  Fight  with  Dirt  has  always  been  an  Unequal  One." 
"There  is  nothing  so  stimulating  to  jaded  nerves  as  the  weird 
strains  of  impassioned  martial  music." 

And  then  the  clothing  advertisements  with  clean-shaven, 
shoulder-padded,  perfectly  fitted  wax  figures,  and  the  get- 
rich-quick  schemes  with  their  opium-dreams  of  opulence 
and  ease,  and  the  patent  medicines.  All  these  were  the 
modern  embodiment  of  ancient  lures — the  fountain  of 
youth,  alchemy,  the  tree  of  knowledge,  Aladdin's  lamp. 
Emerging  from  a  half -hour  bath  in  the  lambent  pages,  one 
felt  that  luscious  beatitude  had  been  for  years  ignorantly 
missed;  but  it  was  not  too  late,  however;  six  postal-cards 
and  a  few  money-orders  would  bring  the  bliss  of  angels — 
or  millionaires — by  fast  freight  or  swift  express. 

And  presiding  over  these  lures,  gathering  them  from 
far  cities,  binding  them  and  showering  them  on  four 
hundred  thousand  homes,  sat  J.  J.  Harrington.  It  was 
like  sitting  unperturbed  in  the  core  of  a  scarlet  cyclone, 
accelerating  the  whirl  of  color  by  divine  command. 
Kirby  felt  intoxicated  and  perturbed.  He  was  ' '  up  against 
the  real  thing"  again — not  a  Jordan  Watts,  an  Olympian, 
but  a  near-Olympian,  a  power  raised  above  the  multitude. 
Like  a  man  with  the  flames  of  whisky  running  through 
him,  craving  a  greater  stimulus,  so  in  Kirby  grew  a  hard 
excitement,  a  spirit  of  trampling  enterprise.  But  he 
quivered  with  subdued  fright  at  the  thought  of  facing 
the  great  J.  J. 

Inwood  was  revealed  in  mild  September  sunshine. 
To  the  left  of  the  station,  bisecting  the  tracks,  ran  a  dusty 
village  street  of  cheap,  dim  stores  and  paint-peeled 
boarding-houses;  but  to  the  right  rose  an  eminence  on 
which  stood  the  model  factory  of  Harrington's — a  long, 
narrow,  three-storied  cement  building  with  superb,  pillared 
porticoes  at  either  end.  Far  up  the  track  stood  the  red 
brick,  three-acre  factory  of  the  storage-battery  street-cars 
and  the  airships.  Smoke  ascended  in  the  soft  liquid 

136 


THE    SLOW    WAY 

light  of  early  Autumn,  and  facing  the  factories,  over  the 
tracks,  a  deep  and  tranquil  wood  was  fading  into  brown 
and  crimson. 

Peace  and  silence;  the  station  was  empty  save  for  a 
sleepy  ticket-seller;  wooden  cases  were  stacked  before  the 
closed  door  of  the  baggage-master's  room;  the  rails 
flashed  and  tremulated  with  sun;  and  the  shadow  of  the 
cement  building  lay  coolly  on  its  green,  sloping  lawn.  Then 
a  buckboard  clattered  over  the  railroad  crossing,  and  the 
impact  of  hoofs  died  in  the  dust  beyond.  Kirby  felt  as  if 
he  had  reached  the  Undisturbed — the  profundity  of  rural 
peace.  And  Harrington's  became  unreal  again,  the  weav 
ing  shadows  of  windy  trees,  the  St.  Vitus'  dance  of 
phantoms. 

Smilingly  he  approached  the  portico,  entered  a  cool 
hall,  ascended  a  broad  flight  of  steps  to  a  large  center  hall 
on  the  top  floor.  Shadow  and  coolness  were  here,  and 
shafts  of  moted  light  from  opened  office  doors.  A  boy  sat 
at  a  desk  dreamily  counting  the  number  of  words  in  a  type 
written  manuscript ;  save  for  the  mumble  of  his  lips,  the 
stillness  all  but  obliterated  the  faint  rumblings  of  a 
printing-press  in  the  basement. 

The  click  of  Kirby 's  heels  echoed  through  the  place; 
the  boy  glanced  up,  fatigued. 

"Mr.  Harrington  in?" 

"Which  Mr.  Harrington?" 

This  was  disturbing. 

"Mr.  J.  J." 

"Gone  to  the  city." 

Kirby  had  a  tendency  to  collapse.  He  had  nerved  him 
self  for  an  ordeal.  The  withdrawal  of  the  moment  of 
climax  left  him  weak. 

"Whom  can  I  see,  then?" 

"Well,  there's  Mr.  Martin  Harrington,  the  Managing 
Editor." 

The  boy  trudged  lazily  into  a  corner  room;  and  Kirby, 
waiting,  heard  dull  voices,  and  then  from  another  room 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

the  low  drone  of  dictation  to  some  stenographer.  The 
fact  that  soon  he,  too,  might  sit  at  the  feet  of  some  master 
and  be  dictated  to  and  have  to  go  out  then  and  transcribe 
painfully  at  a  typewriter  was  unpleasant.  He  knew,  too, 
that  he  was  inexperienced;  that  Atwood's  had  sent  him 
out  without  even  testing  him,  that  he  had  "nerve"  to 
try  for  so  high  a  position,  that  probably  he  would  flunk 
when  it  came  to  the  scratch.  For  he  had  found  in  school 
that  it  was  one  thing  to  write  shorthand  and  quite  another 
to  read  what  he  had  written;  those  gentle  little  curves 
could  tease  the  mind  stupid.  Hearing  that  dictation- 
drone,  his  blood  froze  with  bad  omens.  He  would  have 
to  "bluff"  superbly  to  hold  his  first  job. 

"Well,  then  I'll  bluff,"  said  the  American  in  Kirby. 
"  It's  a  game  of  bluff  from  start  to  finish.  They  all  do  it — 
they  have  to." 

The  advertisements  of  Harrington's  had  been  working 
while  he  waited. 

The  office-boy  now  appeared. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  Kirby  followed.  He  entered  a 
cool  corner  room,  with  open  windows  on  two  sides.  Mar 
tin  Harrington  sat  at  the  flat  center  desk,  manuscripts  and 
letter-files  heaped  before  him.  He  was  an  exceeding  tall 
and  thin  individual,  with  large,  dark,  suspicious  eyes  and 
a  nervous  manner. 

"Atwood's  sent  me,"  said  Kirby. 

There  was  a  slight  aristocratic  contempt  in  Martin's 
voice. 

"Oh,  a  stenographer!" 

Kirby  winced.  There  was  a  cruel  difference  between 
being  a  stenographer  and  being  a  secretary.  , 

"They  said  Mr.  Harrington  wanted  a  secretary." 

"He  does.     What  experience  have  you  had?" 

Kirby  was  ready  for  that. 

"I've  been  two  years  with  the  Continental  Express 
Company,  and  I've  worked  on  a  newspaper  a  couple  of 
years." 

138 


THE    SLOW    WAY 

He  did  not  say  that  shorthand  was  a  fresh  acquisition. 

"Well,"  said  Martin,  "I  might  try  you." 

He  pushed  a  button,  the  office-boy  appeared,  and  a  note 
book  was  secured.  Kirby  stretched  it  on  the  flap  of  the 
desk,  and  sat,  pencil  in  hand,  waiting.  He  went  hot  and 
cold  by  turns,  acutely  aware  that  he  was  alone  in  the 
world,  that  nothing  could  help  him — that  the  soul  of  man 
passes  through  life  in  utter  naked  loneliness.  "Bluff" 
would  not  make  legible  confused  notes.  But  so  much 
depended  on  his  success;  it  would  open  up  such  a  tre 
mendous  chance!  Sitting  there,  it  seemed  that  this  es 
tablishment  swung  in  the  circle  of  the  mighty,  and  the 
gates  might  open  if  he  won  through  this  test.  At  one 
stroke  he  would  be  lifted  into  the  world  he  had  dreamed 
of,  far  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  drudges,  with  countless 
possibilities  a  step  ahead.  And  his  consciousness  of  this 
magic  opportunity  made  him  exquisitely  nervous. 

Luckily  Martin  was  slow  at  composition ;  the  letter  was 
brief,  covering  the  rejection  of  a  manuscript,  and  Kirby 
scrawled  it  down  blindly,  with  the  cold  sweat  on  his 
forehead. 

"You'll  find  paper  and  a  typewriter  in  the  next  room," 
said  Martin. 

Kirby  went  into  the  little  office,  which  was  bare  of  all 
save  a  desk  and  the  machine,  but  it  was  some  time  before 
his  trembling  fingers  could  tap  the  keys,  and  thrice  he 
spoiled  a  sheet.  Finally  he  desperately  thumped  out  the 
letter,  and  took  it,  flushed  and  hot,  to  the  Managing 
Editor. 

Martin  sniffed  at  it. 

"It'll  do,  I  guess,"  he  said,  vaguely,  whereon  Kirby 's 
heart  gave  a  leap  of  triumph,  but  he  added:  "Of  course, 
you'll  have  to  see  J.  J.  I  haven't  anything  to  do  with  his 
secretaries." 

This  was  painful;  so  was  the  tinge  of  contempt  about 
his  secretaries. 

"When  can  I  see  him?"  Kirby  asked,  chokingly. 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Couldn't  say." 

"Is  he  in  mornings?" 

"Sometimes — sometimes  not." 

"Will  he  be  in  to-morrow  morning?" 

"I  wouldn't  dare  predict.  You'll  have  to  take  pot- 
luck." 

Evidently  J.  J.  was  the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it 
listeth.  Kirby  went  home  crestfallen. 

However,  in  the  morning  he  decided  not  to  report  to 
Bradsley  at  all,  but  to  camp  out  on  the  trail  of  the  Captain 
of  Industry.  But  in  the  vacant  hall  the  boy  said,  cheer 
fully: 

"Just  left  for  the  city.     No,  won't  be  back  to-day." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  vanish  gracefully  and  come 
again  on  the  morrow.  He  took  the  eight-o'clock  train, 
and  the  office-boy  was  gleeful  at  his  reappeararice. 

"Nothing  doing.     J.  J.'s  in  New  York." 

Kirby  got  wildly  hot.  What  high  and  mighty  folk  were 
these  that  made  the  race  dance  attendance  on  them,  spend 
ing  time  and  money  on  train-trips?  What  did  old  J.  J. 
think  that  he,  Kirby,  was? 

"But" — he  spoke  sharply — "he's  coming  back,  isn't 
he?" 

The  boy  was  abashed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  meekly,  "if  he  comes  he'll  be  on  the 
eleven-forty  train." 

Kirby  went  out  and  cooled  himself  in  the  woods,  crash 
ing  through  the  undergrowth,  startling  squirrels,  breaking 
in  on  the  liquid  notes  of  birds.  He  was  aroused,  deter 
mined,  mad  as  a  bull.  He'd  show  old  J.  J.! 

He  exhausted  the  woods  by  ten,  and  tried  the  village. 
Its  heavy  tranquillity  goaded  him ;  he  was  for  shooting  it 
up,  Western  style,  the  dead  'burg' !  A  cobbler  was  tapping 
shoes;  a  harness-maker  mending  harness;  a  shoe-store 
was  dustily  idle;  a  general  store  quavered  with  the  passing 
voices  of  loungers;  the  post-office  was  asleep;  the  restau 
rant  dirty  and  empty;  the  drug-store  in  a  trance.  And, 

140 


THE    SLOW    WAY 

oh,  the  boarding-houses  with  shut  windows  and  the  label 
"Boarders  Wanted"  on  the  porch-post! 

He  went  back  to  the  dead  station.  Sun  glanced  blind- 
ingly  along  the  endless  rails,  and  heat  throbbed  upward 
fromUhem  in  metallic  waves.  He  sat  down  on  a  packing- 
case,  moodily  waiting,  and  little  gusts  of  warm  air  blew 
in  his  face.  All  nature  was  in  a  Sabbath  doze.  A  sparrow 
preening  himself  on  the  glistening  telegraph-wire  was  an 
important  visitant. 

Then  the  telegraph-key  began  clicking,  the  baggage- 
master  strolled  up  from  the  street  and  unlocked  his  door, 
and  a  commercial  traveler,  with  valises  in  both  hands, 
ambled  onto  the  rusty-red  platform.  The  rails  now  began 
to  hum,  a  whistle  blew  in  the  distance,  and  at  the  tracks' 
end  a  diminished  locomotive  appeared,  belching  convolu 
tions  of  gray  smoke.  Momently  the  engine  grew,  with 
thunder  and  clang  of  bell,  until  it  loomed,  a  rushing  one- 
eyed  dragon,  rolling  immensely  and  hotly  by  with  swift 
revealing  of  passenger-cars,  and  stopped.  The  conductor 
swung  off  the  steps,  watch  in  hand;  the  engineer  tinkered 
at  the  huge  wheels.  It  was  the  rushing  spirit  of  the 
modern  world,  the  distances  telescoped  in  its  speed. 
And  the  whole  continent  was  weaving  with  the  winged 
carriers,  that  made  one  city  the  suburb  of  another. 

Kirby  had  arisen,  and  stood  grimly,  his  excitement  hard 
and  taut. 

A  bulky,  healthy,  middle-aged  gentleman  swung  off, 
valise  in  hand,  nodded  genially  to  the  baggage-master,  and 
passed  swiftly.  Kirby  fell  into  step  with  him. 

"Mr.  Harrington?" 

Then  sparkling  little  black  eyes  were  turned  to  him, 
and  with  them  a  charmingly  gracious  smile  on  the  smooth- 
shaven,  slightly  wrinkled  face.  The  smile,  the  glance, 
were  disarming.  Kirby  felt  a  sunny  warmth  of  pleasure. 

"Yes,"  said  J.  J.,  in  a  voice  full  of  enchanting  rhythms, 
a  voice  wondrously  alive,  rich,  and  unique,  "what  can  I 
do  for  you?" 

141 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Atwood's  sent  me  for  the  secretary  position." 

"Indeed.     Well,  walk  along  with  me!" 

J.  J.  walked  swiftly;  Kirby  had  to  energize  to  keep 
up.  And  J.  J.  plied  him  with  questions: 

"Where  were  you  born,  Mr. " 

"Trask.     Kirby  Trask.     I  was  born  in  Trent,  Iowa." 

"Middle  Western  town.     American   family?" 

"Yes.     New  Englanders  that  pioneered  in  the  West." 

"Anglo-Saxon  stock,"  said  J.  J.  "That's  the  kind  we 
need.  It's  the  backbone  of  Western  civilization.  Do 
you  mind  telling  me  your  age?" 

The  polite  grace  of  this  was  healing  and  lovely.  "After 
all,"  thought  Kirby,  "the  great  men  are  simple;  it's  only 
the  underlings  that  are  holier-than-thou." 

""I'm  twenty-six." 

"And  you've  had — what  experience?" 

Kirby  told  him  briefly ;  they  now  swept  past  the  cement 
factory  and  took  a  gravel  path  that  led  up  the  slopes 
behind  the  building  to  a  large  Colonial  house  at  the  top. 

"Are  you  married?"  asked  J.  J. 

"No — not  yet,"  Kirby  smiled.  • 

"Excellent.     Not  afraid  to  use  your  brains?" 

"I  hope  not." 

"Nor  of  hard  work  and  long  hours?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"There's  only  one  type  of  man  I  can  use.  One  who 
could  rise  to  the  top." 

Kirby 's  soul  dilated ;  was  he  not  this  man  ? 

"That's  the  only  kind  of  job  I  want." 

"Have  they  tried  you  at  the  office?" 

"Mr.  Martin  did." 

"Satisfactory?" 

"He  said  so." 

They  reached  the  steps  of  the  porch.  J.  J.  turned, 
beaming  at  him. 

"Suppose  we  try,  beginning  to-morrow  morning,  at 
twenty  a  week?" 

142 


THE    SLOW    WAY 

Kirby's  heart  took  a  flier. 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,  you'll  have  to  move  to  Inwood  at  once.  I 
begin  early.  How  early  could  you  start  in  the  morning?" 

"Any  time  you  say,"  gasped  the  drunken  fellow. 

"Seven  even?" 

"Surely." 

"Be  at  this  house,  then,  seven  A.M  to-morrow.  Good 
day,  Mr.  Trask." 

He  vanished,  smiling.  What  could  be  easier?  what 
more  natural?  what  more  satisfactory? 

"This  is  glorious,"  thought  Kirby,  "glorious." 

He  trod  on  air;  he  exulted  in  every  fiber.  Yes,  he  had 
broken  in;  he  had  "nailed  the  job."  The  gates,  at  last, 
had  opened.  Genius  was  to  have  its  fling.  J.  J.,  like 
all  great  men,  had  probed  by  a  mere  glance  of  eyes  his 
power  and  his  possibilities.  It  was  an  unbelievable 
miracle.  Yes,  he'd  begin  work  at  dawn  if  necessary,  or 
at  two  in  the  morning. 

He  looked  down  on  the  express  job  as  from  a  mountain- 
top.  Down  there  were  the  poor  drudges,  the  humdrum 
existence  of  the  petty  crowd. 

"Glorious,"  he  laughed,  "glorious,  and  twenty  a  week!" 

As  for  the  pesky  shorthand  and  typewriting — well,  what 
was  the  use  of  thinking  of  unpleasant  things? 


XIV 

TROUBLE    BEGINS 

MORNING  and  Kirby  got  up  together,  and  both  were 
a  little  gray.  When  the  alarm-clock  scalped  Kirby 
of  sleep  at  four-thirty,  the  room  was  still  dim  with  the 
street-lamp,  and  Kirby  had  to  light  the  gas  to  dress. 
Then  he  stuffed  pajamas  and  comb  and  brush  in  the  suit 
case,  snapped  it  shut,  took  a  last  look  at  the  room,  and  went 
down  through  the  halls,  under  stains  of  light,  with  hard 
excitement.  He  felt  a  bitter  strength  sustaining  him,  as 
if  he  were  nerved  against  a  charge  of  murder  or  a  surgical 
operation. 

A  light  burned  in  the  dining-room,  and  from  the  lighted 
kitchen,  where  poor  Gertie,  the  waitress,  was  up  an  hour 
ahead  of  her  time  to  get  some  breakfast  for  "the  young 
gentleman,"  came  a  penetrating,  pungent  odor  of  coffee. 

"All  right,  sir,"  she  called  in,  desolately,  and  brought  in 
a  tray  of  breakfast.  He  glanced  at  her  and  saw  that  the 
last  two  years  had  despoiled  her  completely  of  what 
beauty  she  had.  Her  stringy  hair  was  matted  about  the 
temples;  rings  were  brown  under  the  faded  eyes;  her  form 
was  unshapely;  and  she  slouched  about,  a  broken  house- 
slave  taking  to  herself,  as  it  were,  all  that  dirt  of  life 
which,  cast  off  by  the  strong  and  lucky,  yet  engulfs 
humanity. 

"So  you're  leaving  us."  She  sniffed  a  little.  It  meant, 
plainly,  "You  are  going  on  to  glory,  but  for  me  there  is 
neither  success  nor  love ;  merely  day  after  day  of  the  mop, 
the  towel,  the  broom,  the  dish,  and  the  bed."  Just  for  a 

144 


TROUBLE    BEGINS 

moment  Kirby  felt  that  modern  moral  squirming  which 
makes  the  poor  a  Banquo's  ghost  at  the  feast  of  the 
fortunate.  He  felt  an  unpleasant  twinge  at  the  mon 
strous  inequality;  but,  after  all,  he  had  not  made  the  world. 
Besides,  he  had  enough  troubles  ahead. 

So,  dragging  his  heavy  suit-case,  he  went  out  through 
the  gloom  of  the  street.  In  the  first  dim  heave  of  dawn  the 
street-lamps  flamed  sharp;  here  and  there  an  all-night 
restaurant  flooded  the  pavement  with  an  oblong  of  light, 
and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  stealing  through  sleep  like  some 
plotter  of  the  Underworld.  On  the  ferry  were  laborers 
muffled  up  against  the  cold  sea-wind,  and  as  the  boat  put 
out  on  the  waters,  dawn  of  the  saddest,  most  delicate 
gray  and  white  was  tremulous  on  the  two  misty  cities  and 
the  hurrying  tides.  The  ferry  whistled  hoarsely,  per 
sistently,  against  the  low  fog,  and  tugs  passed  like  phan 
toms  with  eyes  of  vaporous  fire. 

The  lighted  train  was  filled  with  silent,  fatigued  la 
borers  who  sank  luxuriously  in  the  bubbling,  steamy 
warmth.  Kirby,  his  nose  on  the  closed  window,  felt 
that  life  was  hard  and  fearful.  He  got  glimpses  of  toiling 
night-shifts  in  the  illumined  factories,  saw  dim  canals 
emerging  as  on  a  photographic  plate  in  the  growing  light, 
and^eheld  bare  fields  and  shabby  suburbs.  Again  he  was 
breaking  irrevocably  with  the  past,  and  plunging  through 
the  dawn  to  a  vague  and  troublous  future,  to  a  self-pre 
cipitated  destiny  that  might  involve  destruction  and 
death.  At  least  it  would  involve  transcribing  shorthand 
notes,  and  at  the  moment  he  could  think  of  nothing  more 
horrible. 

A  grim,  nervous,  excited  young  man,  then,  lugged  a 
suit-case  past  the  cement  building  and  up  the  gravel  path. 
Sleep  possessed  the  blank-windowed  house,  and  Kirby 
pushed  the  bell-button  lightly.  Then  in  the  silence  a 
chain  clanked,  a  key  turned,  and  the  door  opened.  A  sad 
old  butler,  with  cheeks  covered,  as  it  were,  with  a  red 
frost,  looked  down  at  the  intruder. 

MS 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Are  you  the  new  secretary?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  were 
compelled  to  put  this  melancholy  question  every  morning. 

"Yes,"  said  Kirby. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  butler,  "you're  to  leave  your  hat 
and  coat  on  the  rack  here  and  take  your  note-book  and 
pencil — them  was  Mr.  Harrington's  orders — and  go  to  the 
second  floor  to  the  last  room  to  the  right  and  knock  on  the 
door." 

Kirby  froze. 

"His  bedroom?"  he  murmured. 

"Oh  yes,  sir." 

"You're  sure?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir.  All  his  secretaries  go  to  his  bedroom. 
This  way,  sir.." 

Kirby  suppressed  a  hysterical  laugh.  Note-book  and 
fountain-pen  in  hand,  he  ascended  the  soft-carpeted  stairs 
and  tripped  guiltily  along  the  hushed  hall.  It  was  five 
minutes  to  seven.  What  was  going  to  happen  next  in  this 
mad-house?  He  studied  the  door  for  several  throbbing 
minutes,  then  precipitously  knuckled  it. 

A  sleepy  voice  murmured,  "Well?" 

"  It's  Mr.  Trask,"  he  said.  His  tongue  felt  par 
alyzed. 

"Oh  yes,  come  in!" 

Just  as  he  pushed  in  the  door,  just  as  he  got  a  vagKc, 
swift  glimpse  of  an  enormous  corner  room,  with  four  high 
windows,  roll-top  desk  in  the  far  corner,  bureau,  revolving 
cabinets  full  of  books  and  papers,  a  screen  hiding  another 
corner,  and  in  the  very  middle  a  single  brass  bed  with 
J.  J.  in  it,  just  as  he  took  his  first  step  and  flashed  this 
outlay,  J.  J.  reached  his  hand  to  a  wall-rack  stuffed 
with  manuscripts  and  papers  right  above  his  head  and 
began  talking  crisply.  In  horror  Kirby  realized  that  he 
was  dictating,  and  he  just  had  enough  presence  of  mind 
to  stagger  across  the  room  jotting  with  his  pen  on  a  bob 
bing,  palpitating  note-book.  But  of  what  he  wrote  or 
how  he  wrote  it  he  had  no  least  sane  inkling. 

146 


TROUBLE    BEGINS 

"My  dear  Mr.  Cuivilier" — J.  J.  was  bolstered  up  in 
his  white  nightgown,  his  hair  mussed,  his  cheeks  un 
shaven — "I  sat  up  till  one-thirty  this  morning  absorbed 
in  your  charming  story,  'The  Unequivocal  Woman.'  It 
quite  took  my  breath  away.  It  has  power,  grace,  style. 
There  is,  I  feel,  no  American  writer  who  can  so  charmingly 
set  forth  the  complexities  and  alluring  romance  of  women 
as  you  yourself.  The  narrative,  too,  has  all  the  qual 
ities  of  modern  fiction — it  is  brisk,  brittle,  entrancing.  I 
notice  that  by  some  untoward  accident  I  have  kept  the 
manuscript  four  months,  thereby  delaying  a  happy  half- 
hour.  And  so  I  regret  all  the  more  that  we  can  find  no 
place  for  it  in  the  magazine.  Believe  me,  with  best 
wishes  .  .  .  ." 

Poor  Mr.  Cuivilier,  soon  to  glow  and  expand  over  the 
opening  of  this  letter,  and  then  to  collapse  over  the  end! 
There  was  drama  here  worthy  of  Kirby's  attention,  but 
that  young  man  sat  doubled  up  as  if  he  had  the  gripes, 
and  on  his  sweat-dripping  face  was  blank  horror,  as  one 
who,  having  emptied  a  medicine-bottle,  suddenly  cries: 
"But  I've  taken  poison;  I'm  dying."  Words,  words, 
words,  and  here  and  there  one  of  them  in  drunken  short 
hand! 

"My  dear  Mr.  Terhune,"  J.  J.  was  going  on,  totally 
oblivious  of  such  mechanism  as  a  private  secretary. 

But  Kirby  gasped  weakly: 

"But  I  didn't  get  down  that  first  one — I  mean,  all  of  it." 

J.  J.  looked  up  with  eyes  blazing.  Where  was  the 
gracious  gentleman  of  yesterday? 

"Now  you've  smashed  a  whole  train  of  thought,"  he 
snapped.  "You've  choked  my  subconscious  flow.  Learn 
not  to  interrupt ;  leave  a  blank  space  and  fill  in  afterward. 
My  dear  Mr.  Terhune — " 

A  wave  of  nausea  threatened  Kirby's  body;  swift  death 
were  preferable  to  this.  But  J.  J.  had  stopped,  wild  with 
exasperation. 

"I've  lost   the  whole  hell -roaring  business.     Really, 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Mr.  Trask,  this  won't  do.  Do  you  object  to  my  dress 
ing?" 

Kirby  switched  on  a  ghastly  grin. 

"No,"  he  whispered. 

He  foresaw  a  breathing-space.  Whereupon  J.  J. 
leaped  out  of  bed  in  his  bare  feet  and  began  athletic 
exercises  in  the  center  of  the  room,  arms  out,  over  head, 
hands  down  till  they  touched  the  floor,  leg  up,  foot 
kicking;  but  just  as  Kirby  was  getting  hysterical  over  this 
spectacle  the  Cuivilier  letter  poured  over  him  again  with 
all  its  swift,  cold  beauty.  Something  snapped  in  him; 
a  gymnazing  J.  J.  who  could  combine  business  with 
athletics,  making  his  body  do  one  thing  while  his  brain 
did  another,  was  too  much  for  Kirby 's  young  mind;  he 
became  callous  and  desperately  blithely  careless,  letting 
his  pen  dance  as  it  would. 

J.  J.  now  pulled  a  tub  of  cold  water  from  under  his  bed, 
set  the  screen  about  it,  and,  while  a  crazed  Kirby  heard 
the  water  splash,  the  swift  speech  of  this  amazing  man  fell 
like  rain  over  the  screen-top. 

Next,  Kirby,  glancing  up,  felt  like  shrieking,  and  looked 
away  to  save  himself.  For  J.  J.,  clad  only  in  woolen 
underwear,  was  leaning  toward  the  mirror  over  the  sink 
and  busily  shaving  himself.  And  still  the  subconscious 
flowed,  flowed  forever.  Ha,  thought  Kirby,  is  this  then 
Big  Business?  And  blithely  his  pen  careened.  The  man 
in  the  death-cell  may  as  well  enjoy  himself  before  the 
execution. 

He  was  dimly  aware  that  J.  J.  was  fully  dressed,  when 
there  was  a  knock  on  the  door. 

"Come,"  cried  J.  J.  "And  yet  you  ought  to  train 
yourself  in  style.  Master  English,  young  man,  before 
you  attempt  to  create  art — 

The  butler  entered  with  a  tray  of  breakfast,  and  J.  J. 
abruptly  wheeled  on  him. 

"Pound  on  Mr.  Martin's  door!"  he  shouted,  in  a  rage 
to  the  old  man.  "That  stinking  son-of-a-gun  has  got  to 

148 


TROUBLE    BEGINS 

learn  to  rise  early.  I've  been  using  my  brain  for  an  hour 
already.  For,  as  Emerson  said,  you  may  be  a  god  with 
the  divine  afflatus,  but  you've  got  to  know  grammar, 
too— 

He  sat  down  and  broke  his  eggs,  but  broke  not  the 
flow  of  eloquence.  Then  Martin  came  in,  rubbing  his 
eyes. 

"Father,"  he  murmured. 

J.  J.  was  just  in  "what  our  literature  needs,"  and 
also  his  cup  of  coffee,  but  he  turned  with  savage  grace: 

"What  the  hell  you  want?" 

Martin  was  just  as  hot-tempered. 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  see  the  staff  at  eight-thirty. 
Shall  I  bring  them  in?" 

"My  God,  Martin,  you'd  make  hell  stink!  Do  I  want 
what  I  want,  or  don't  I  want  what  I  want?  What  do 
you  think  of  that,  Mr.  Trask?" 

Mr.  Trask  was  devoid  of  thought;  he  sat  there  like  a 
hen  with  its  head  off,  a  sick  collapse. 

"Well,  you  know,"  cried  Martin  at  the  door,  "you're 
always  wanting  something  else — 

"Get  out  of  here!"  roared  J.  J.,  and,  as  the  door 
slammed,  "Needs  fresh  vigor,  Western  snap;  our  public 
is  getting  tired  of  flabby  wish  wash.  It  wants  red  blood, 
punch,  vim,  stuff  with  the  guts — 

And  still  the  nimble  pen  careened.  J.  J.  now  sat  at 
his  desk  and  started,  myriad-brainy  man: 

"Change  of  systems  for  manufacturing  departments. 
A.  Bracket." 

"What?"  burst  from  Kirby. 

J.  J.  turned  on  him  and  pounded  fist  in  hand. 

"Learn  this  at  once — bracket  everything;  a-b-c  every 
thing;  one-two-three  everything.  It's  the  only  way  to 
clarify  the  brain.  You  must  learn  to  analyze,  to  divide 
a  subject  into  its  parts.  You  can't  think  otherwise. 
Good  idea!  Take  this:  'Instructions  to  the  staff— 
I  want  all  employees  to  learn  to  analyze.  Make  no 

149 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

reports  hereafter  except  in  this  form.' "     He  helped  Kirby 
by  a  map  on  pad  paper: 

GENERAL   SUBJECT 

{i.  First  minor  heading 
2.  Second   "  " 

3.  Third     " 
4-  Fourth   " 

"'In  this  way  we  may  by  some  miracle  coerce  you  to 
use  your  brains.' ' 

He  laughed  now  delightedly,  and  confided  in  his 
secretary. 

"They're  waste-baskets,  that's  what  they  are;  not 
editors  and  managers.  They  go  round  and  round  like  a 
whirlwind  of  slop- water.  I  expect  something  else  of  you." 

Came  then  a  timid  knock  on  the  door.  "Come  in," 
cried  J.  J.,  and  in  filed  seven  expectant  men — Martin, 
managing  editor;  Edgar,  the  younger  son,  manager  of 
the  storage-battery  street-cars;  Boyd,  business-manager; 
Hurley,  associate  editor;  Campbell,  assistant  editor; 
Jonison,  art  editor;  Meggs,  head  of  subscription  depart 
ment. 

J.  J.  never  turned  from  his  desk,  but  sat  pulling  at  a 
bunch  of  reports,  glaring  and  muttering.  The  seven 
formed  a  semicircle  behind  him.  Kirby  was  incapable 
of  any  new  emotions,  but  he  thought  grimly  that  this  was 
a  scene  in  a  comic  opera,  and  not  life.  And  the  seven 
seemed  a  little  frightened. 

Silence;  then  a  terrific  pounding  on  the  desk,  and  the 
bellowing  of  a  bull : 

"Whose  report  is  this?" 

The  seven  craned  their  necks. 

"Mine,"  muttered  Boyd,  guiltily. 

Without  turning,  J.  J.  flung  it  to  the  floor  behind  him. 

"Pick  that  up!"  he  thundered. 

150 


TROUBLE    BEGINS 

Meekly  Boyd  stooped  and  picked  it.  Then  J.  J. 
wheeled  round,  an  insane  light  in  his  eyes,  flecks  of  sali 
vary  foam  on  his  lip  corners: 

"  What's  in  your  skull,  Mr.  Boyd?  Mush?  If  a  boy  of 
seven  wrote  such  driveling  damned  rot,  I'd  spank  him. 
Minor  expenditures!  Minor  pus!  Rotten!  Rotten!  It 
stinks!" 

"I'm  sure,  Mr.  Harrington,"  said  Boyd,  gently,  "I  do 
the  best  I  can.  Every  one  knows  that!" 

"My  grandmother  knows  it!"  roared  J.  J.,  and  turned 
to  the  next.  One  after  the  other  the  reports  were  flung 
to  the  floor;  one  after  the  other  the  seven  stooped  and 
picked  them  up;  one  after  the  other  received  a  profane 
explosion.  Were  these  men  or  dogs?  thought  Kirby. 
A  saving  anger  leaped  in  him;  he'd  just  like  to  see  J.  J. 
talk  to  him  like  that! 

Then  all  at  once  J.  J.  leaped  up,  danced  in  a  small 
circle,  shook  his  fist  in  the  faces  of  the  seven,  and  gave 
what  seemed  to  be  a  series  of  smothered  shrieks. 

Beginning  with  a  slow  glide  of  "cuss  words,"  taking  a 
slant  with  choice  and  surprising  obscenity,  and  beauti 
fully,  by  gently  ascending  curves,  rising  up  and  up  to  the 
most  elemental  word  in  the  English  language,  J.  J.  bathed 
the  seven  in  the  most  amazing  profanity  of  the  Western 
world.  Kirby  felt  the  life  leave  his  body,  reason  de 
parted,  and  then  he  felt  a  primal  joy.  He  had  never 
witnessed  a  mind  more  completely  relieved  of  its  feelings; 
speech  could  go  no  further;  J.  J.  was  the  one  man  who 
could  totally  express  himself. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Kirby  felt  the  tiger  joy 
of  seeing  human  beings  trampled.  There  was  something 
of  the  jungle  in  this  rending  of  limb  from  limb;  the  sight 
evoked  the  baser  instincts.  It  was  as  if  Kirby  had  tasted 
blood  for  the  first  time  in  the  brute,  primitive  battles  of 
American  business;  he  got  a  mouthful  of  the  ruthlessness, 
greed,  rapacity  of  modern  commerce.  The  fighter  awoke 
in  him,  the  hard,  glittering,  tigerish  hunter,  and  he  lusted 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

to  get  into  the  world-scrimmage  himself.  He,  too,  had 
it  in  him  to  trample  his  way  over  the  fallen  bodies  of  the 
weak. 

Without  argument  the  vanquished  and  cursed  seven 
departed,  whereupon  J.  J.  turned  to  Kirby  with  a  ravish 
ing  smile: 

"What  do  you  think  of  them,  Mr.  Trask?  But  come, 
I  must  catch  my  train.  Put  on  your  hat  and  coat  and 
walk  to  the  station.  I  must  dictate  on  the  way!" 

Kirby  heard  these  words,  but  there  was  no  reason  for 
believing  them.  Yet  in  ten  minutes  he  was  a  gymnast 
himself,  desperately  driving  his  legs  along  the  gravel  path 
to  keep  up  with  his  cyclonic  boss,  in  one  hand  near  his 
nose  the  note-book,  in  the  other  his  pen.  The  pen  and 
note-book  seemed  to  keep  jumping  at  each  other.  Some 
times  they  met;  sometimes  they  didn't. 

Earth  rotated  about  him,  a  green  blur  that  gave  to  the 
red  of  the  station,  and  suddenly  to  the  red  of  the  train. 
Subconsciously  he  was  aware  of  J.  J.  hanging  onto  the 
steps  and  the  conductor  crying  "All  aboard." 

"This  process  of  making  a  storage-battery  is  new — 
discovered  by  Fenwick  not  six  months  ago — its  use — ' 
B-z-z!    the  words  died,   and  Kirby,   glancing  up,   saw 
J.  J.'s  head  projecting  from  the  car  platform  ten  feet 
away,  passing  like  foam  out  of  earshot. 

Kirby  stood  there  mentally  dismembered.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  a  nervous  wreck;  all  his  strength  had  left  him, 
and  he  quivered  in  every  muscle.  His  brain  was  like  a 
hollow  drum. 

"Holy  mackerel!"  he  muttered. 

What  manner  of  mortal  was  this  J.  J.  ?  Was  he  human 
at  all?  Did  he  keep  up  this  whirlwind  speed  and  energy 
every  day?  Where  did  he  get  his  vitality?  Was  it 
necessary  to  be  like  this  to  succeed  in  business?  There 
was  no  strenuous  President  as  yet  to  acquaint  the  youth 
of  America  with  the  powers  of  man ;  hence,  Kirby  was  dum- 
founded.  Yes,  he  was  dizzy. 

152 


TROUBLE    BEGINS 

And  those  shorthand  notes — what  should  he  do  with 
them?  It  was  a  ghastly  predicament. 

Suddenly,  then,  the  noon  whistle  blew,  and  out  of  the 
building  poured  a  stream  of  pressmen  and  the  girls  of  the 
subscription  department.  It  struck  Kirby  that  he  had 
better  find  a  boarding-house. 

He  turned  and  staggered  up  the  dusty  street  and  en 
tered  a  labeled  house. 

The  landlady  showed  him  a  little  room  on  the  second 
floor,  but  he  didn't  like  it.  He  surmised  that  the  walls 
were  merely  laths  covered  with  paper;  the  whole  house 
had  a  tremulous  fragility.  Yet  he  took  the  room;  he 
knew  of  nothing  better. 

Then  he  went  down  to  the  noon  meal.  About  the  long 
table  sat  a  gang  of  powerful  pressmen  in  overalls,  with 
oily,  grimy  arms  bare  to  the  elbows  ....  huge  chunks  of 
men,  roughly  jesting;  big,  elemental  comrades  with  primi 
tive  hunger  and  health.  They  looked  at  Kirby  as  if  he 
didn't  belong,  came  there  by  accident,  and  he  felt  asham- 
edly  embarrassed,  just  as  he  had  before  the  husky  express 
drivers  in  the  Broadway  basement.  There  was  some 
thing  small  in  his  fineness,  his  sensitiveness;  something 
large  and  of  the  Earth  in  their  primal  roughness.  He  had 
come  without  appetite,  but  now  the  sight  of  food  dis 
gusted  him. 

Huge  bowls  of  large  boiled  potatoes  with  the  skins  on 
were  placed  at  either  end  of  the  table  by  an  iron-muscled 
Amazon,  and  then  in  the  center  a  great  platter  in  which 
red  slabs  of  beef  swam  in  gravy.  At  once  the  pressmen 
leaned,  half  rising,  forked  all  they  could  jab,  and  began 
eating  like  ravening  animals.  Slop!  slop!  went  their 
mouths.  Kirby,  overwhelmed  by  the  morning  and  by 
glowing  anticipations  of  note-reading  and  by  this  primeval 
spectacle,  sat  there  like  some  poor,  sick  thing  left  to  die 
by  a  cruel  world. 

And  at  one  the  grueling  began.  He  sat  in  the  bare 
office  at  the  typewriter  and  tried  to  read  his  notes.  He 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

racked  his  brain  over  the  curves  and  angles,  the  vowels 
and  consonants.  Sweat  dripped  down  his  white  face. 
All  that  he  made  out  was  "Cuivilier — one-thirty — morn 
ing — story — grace — no  American  writer — women — your 
self—" 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "something  about  rejecting  a 
story;  oh  yes,  liked  it,  but  it  couldn't  go." 

Suddenly  he  laughed,  and  the  room  echoed. 

"I'm  not  going  to  lose  without  a  fight,"  he  thought. 
"I'm  going  to  bluff  itl  If  I  don't  I'm  lost;  if  I  do,  well— 
by  Jingo!  J.  J.'s  bluff;  so  am  I!" 

And  so  through  the  long  afternoon  he  picked  legible 
scraps  from  the  garbage  of  his  notes,  and  composed  letters 
with  all  his  ingenuity  and  imaginative  power. 

Brent,  the  manuscript-clerk,  came  in  at  four  o'clock  to 
give  him  a  story  for  J.  J.  He  beheld  the  wreck  of  young 
life. 

"Where  you  stopping?"  he  asked. 

Kirby  told  him. 

"Oh,  you  want  to  come  to  my  boarding-house.  It's 
mighty  nice." 

Kirby  eagerly  agreed,  and  Brent  promised  to  wait  for 
him  that  evening. 

At  six  o'clock,  still  toiling  under  electric  light,  he 
was  staggered  by  the  office-boy  entering  and  saying, 
glibly: 

"J-  J-  wants  you.     Bring  your  note-book." 

He  went  up  to  the  room,  and  for  an  hour  took  dictation. 
Then  he  went  out.  Brent  was  waiting  for  him,  but 
Kirby  was  beyond  fresh  sensation.  As  they  walked,  he 
heard,  dimly: 

"J.  J.  is  the  most  godless  man  I've  ever  met.  He 
ought  to  be  stood  up  and  shot  with  a  Gatling  gun." 

To  this  sentiment  he  heartily  subscribed.  Then  he  was 
aware  of  a  neat  dining-room,  a  hovering  family,  food,  and 
a  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  He  went  straight  to  bed. 
It  was  eight  o'clock. 


TROUBLE    BEGINS 

The  day  had  been  a  nightmare  of  excitement,  strenu- 
osity,  insanity,  terror,  toil,  and  exhaustion. 

"A  little  more,"  he  thought,  "and  I'll  go  out  of  my 
mind.  What's  that  man,  anyway?  No  wonder  he  can't 
keep  a  secretary." 

He  had  never  been  so  tired  in  his  life;  he  had  never 
worked  so  ruinously.  And  as  he  fell  asleep  two  demon 
shapes  glared  at  him  from  the  foot  of  the  bed — one  was 
Seven  A.M.  To-morrow,  and  the  other  was  Typewritten 
Letters  which  J.  J.  is  Going  to  Read. 


XV 

TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

TWICE  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Allison  awoke  Kirby, 
and  finally  she  had  to  summon  her  powerful  husband, 
who  pulled  the  private  secretary  out  of  the  jaws  of  sleep 
as  if  he  had  been  a  tooth. 

Kirby  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  looked  with  mercy- 
begging  eyes  on  his  tormentor. 

"Yes,"  he  yawned,  "be  with  you  in  a  minute!" 

And  back  he  plunged  to  the  balm  of  the  pillow.  Mr. 
Allison,  however,  was  a  Son  of  Duty.  He  shook  the  young 
gentleman  vigorously. 

"J.  J.'ll  be  waiting,  Mr.  Trask.  And  you  know  what 
that  means." 

The  phrase  magically  brought  him  to.  He  felt  his  heart 
trying  to  escape  through  the  prison-bars  of  his  ribs.  And 
as  he  swiftly  dressed  he  thought : 

"I've  lost  my  nerve.  By  now  he's  read  that  stuff. 
But,  even  if  he  hasn't,  another  day  like  yesterday  will 
drive  me  mad." 

There  was  a  smell  of  burning  leaves  in  the  air,  per 
vading  the  house  ....  a  crisp,  searching  smell,  exquisite,  the 
Earth's  incense  floating  up  to  the  Lord  of  Harvests.  Some 
where  in  remote  gardens  the  tranquil  gardeners  were 
gathering  the  bough-lost  leaves  to  send  the  smokes  of 
peace  through  the  transparent  sunshine.  For  such 
dreamy  quiet,  the  hush  of  the  hours  over  the  fruitful 
Earth,  the  changes  of  the  sun  on  pasture  and  hollow  wood, 
Kirby's  shredded  spirit  was  aching.  J.  J.  now  seemed 

156 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

merely  a  circus-performer  riding  the  three  horses  of 
storage-batteries,  airships,  and  the  magazine;  a  troubled 
pinch  of  noise  and  dust  spinning  vainly  in  the  silence  of 
engulfing  skies.  And  Kirby  thought  of  his  lost  clerkship, 
the  calm,  unchanging  days,  the  complete  mastery  of  the 
work  in  hand,  the  freedom  of  the  untired  nights,  and 
wished  himself  back  in  the  gliding  ease  of  the  rut.  He 
had  the  weak  and  dissolving  tiredness  of  the  convalescent 
who  tries  to  walk  for  the  first  time  and  swiftly  crawls 
back  to  bed. 

Brent's  work  did  not  begin  until  eight-thirty,  so  Kirby 
ate  alone  at  six-thirty  with  Allison  and  his  stout  son.  Both 
were  excellent  carpenters,  tanned  and  sinewy,  fresh  with 
their  unhurried  outdoor  work;  they  seemed  to  have 
absorbed  into  their  fiber  the  stout  grain  of  oak  and  maple 
and  pine;  they  seemed  almost  odorous  of  the  sun-soaked 
sawdust  that  gushed  as  the  teeth  bit  through  the  wood. 
Kirby  envied  them  their  sound  labor,  their  powerful 
handling  of  things,  their  healthy,  complacent  minds. 
To  drive  a  nail  straight,  to  dovetail  moldings,  to  plane  a 
shingle  seemed  to  put  these  men  into  the  rhythm  of 
growing  Nature. 

But  though  he  envied  them,  they  in  turn  showed  keen 
admiration  and  respect  for  the  secretary  of  the  great 
J.  J.  He  found  that  J.  J.  obsessed  Inwood;  more,  that 
he  was  Inwood.  The  place  was  but  his  appendage,  the 
inhabitants  either  his  employees  or  those  who  thrived  by 
their  presence.  J.  J.  was  like  a  feudal  baron  with  a 
whole  township  of  peasants  dependent  upon  him. 

"He's  a  great  man,  is  J.  J.,"  said  Allison.  "He's  made 
this  place.  But  he's  a  queer  one.  Trouble  all  the  time 
over  to  the  factories,  and  he's  run  up  bills  with  the  trades 
people  something  amazing — hundreds  of  dollars.  They 
do  say  he's  in  financial  deep  water,  what  with  those  crazy 
airships — "  He  paused,  and  both  he  and  his  son  laughed 
rackingly.  "Oh,  Lord!  When  those  airships  try  to  fly! 
For  I've  noticed  God  didn't  put  wings  on  our  shoulders. 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

And  them  storage-batteries — dreams,  as  you'll  find,  Mr. 
Trask.     But  now  it's  twelve  minutes  of  seven." 

As  Kirby  hurried  through  the  perfect  morning  his  un 
quiet  was  sharpened  by  these  unpleasant  tidings.  Air 
ships!  How  absurd!  For  the  newspapers  at  this  time 
were  blithely  ridiculing  and  helping  to  kill  poor  Langley 
of  the  Smithsonian,  whose  assistants  were  persistently 
swimming  and  sinking  in  the  Potomac  instead  of  flying 
over  it.  And  in  such  insane  enterprise  J.  J.  was  engag 
ing — airships  and  storage-batteries.  Kirby  had  the  first 
dull  glimmer  of  the  notion  that  the  whole  J.  J.  institution 
might  be  merely  a  quicksand  swallowing  money  and  men 
and  brave  ideas.  Financial  deep  water!  Was  this,  then, 
Big  Business,  and  did  its  emergence  in  American  life  mean 
merely  the  ruin  of  investor  and  toiler  and  the  blighting 
of  love  and  hope  and  quiet  joy  ?  He  felt  that  already  some 
thing  good  had  been  killed  within  him. 

There  was  not  much  time,  however,  for  such  reflection. 
A  more  immediate  terror  pressed. 

"By  now,"  thought  Kirby,  again,  "he's  read  that  stuff. 
Anyhow,  I'm  up  against  another  day." 

He  began  to  feel  physically  sick  as  he  approached  the 
house;  he  had  a  tremendous  desire  to  rid  himself  of  his 
breakfast.  The  front  door  was  open,  and  he  entered  and 
hung  up  coat  and  hat.  Then,  quivering  with  raw  excite 
ment,  he  mounted  the  stairs.  A  low,  thin  whimpering,  as 
of  a  soul  being  tortured  to  death,  came  from  the  shadows 
of  the  upper  hall.  It  was  a  thin,  bitter  thread  of  agony, 
and  the  sound  made  his  heart  stop.  Aghast,  he  took  a  few 
steps  forward.  Then  he  saw  a  huge  mastiff  circling  with 
his  teeth  the  wrist  of  one  of  the  office-boys.  In  that 
clutch  the  boy  could  not  move  and  did  not  dare  cry  out. 
The  big  animal  stood  quietly,  with  shining  eyes.  Kirby 
was  overmastered  with  horror. 

"Can't  you  get  loose?"  he  whispered. 

"No."  The  boy  breathed  hard  and  whimpered  again. 
"He's  Mr.  Edgar's — this  is  his  door." 

158 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

"Keep  still,  then!" 

Kirby  knocked,  and  heard  the  dog  breathing  sharply. 
It  seemed  hard  to  knock  again. 

"Yes?"  came  a  sleepy  voice. 

"Come  here  a  moment,"  said  Kirby. 

The  door  opened;  Edgar  was  in  his  nightgown. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Your  dog's  got  hold  of  one  of  the  boys." 

Edgar  laughed  keenly. 

"He's  a  dandy  watch-dog,  all  right.  Blunt,"  he  called, 
"come  here!" 

The  dog  brushed  by  Kirby  and  disappeared  with  his 
master,  and  the  frightened  child  scuttered  away.  Kirby 
found  that  his  face  was  bathed  in  sweat  and  his  limbs 
trembling  as  if  his  muscles  were  trying  to  break  from  the 
bones. 

"What  a  ghastly  house!"  he  thought.  "And  how 
cruel!" 

The  little  incident  seemed  like  a  sudden  searchlight 
turned  on  J.  J.;  it  was  a  symbol  of  this  Big  Business. 
Terrorism,  force,  cruelty.  Kirby  grew  hot  with  anger. 

"To  thunder  with  them  all!"  he  thought,  and  knocked 
on  J.  J.'s  door. 

"Come,"  said  J.  J.,  and  again,  as  yesterday,  the  hand 
reached  up  to  the  rack,  and  dictation  sped  Kirby  across  the 
room.  He  had  no  time  for  anger  or  defiance  or  dread;  he 
could  only  desperately  scrawl  and  scratch  all  through  the 
weird  process  of  athletics,  bathing,  dressing,  and  break 
fast.  But  when,  after  breakfast,  J.  J.  sat  down  at  his 
desk  and  began  to  finger  the  typewritten  letters  which 
lay  there  in  a  neat  heap,  Kirby  felt  unnerved  again  and 
strove  vainly  to  muster  up  defiance.  He  sat  there  watch 
ing  the  fingers  dandle  the  convicting  evidence  as  if  he  were 
a  cat  in  the  clutch  of  a  snake. 

"They  seem  rather  crude,"  said  J.  J.,  and  looked  hard 
at  Kirby. 

Kirby  blushed  and  swallowed  a  cough. 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"You  said,"  he  muttered,  "I  should  leave  blank  spaces 
and  fill  in  afterward." 

J.  J.'s  eyes  twinkled;  his  voice  had  the  lilt  of  lovely 
melody. 

"I'm  afraid,  then,  that  your  whole  note-book  is  blank, 
Mr.  Trask." 

He  laughed;  Kirby  laughed,  too.  This  was  delightful. 
It  was  generous,  intuitive  in  understanding,  merciful. 
Indeed,  through  all  the  rush  and  drive  of  work  and  the 
profane  explosions,  J.  J.  seemed  in  a  golden  mood  this 
morning,  and  Kirby  felt  that  he  could  almost  love  this 
magnetic,  charming,  terrible,  profane,  wicked  fellow. 

"I  ought  to  go  slower;  I  ought  to  remember  that  you 
aren't  accustomed  to  my  way,  Mr.  Trask,"  he  said. 
"But  I  forget  my  manners  in  my  work.  At  such  times 
you  must  pardon  me." 

Kirby  felt  that  he  was  liked,  and  his  heart  gave  a  leap 
of  joy.  It  was  intoxicating.  The  dream  of  swift  domi 
nance  filled  him  again,  running  through  him  like  an  arous 
ing  liquor.  It  was  as  if  the  tightening  pressure  of  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  straining  against  a  trap-door  in  his 
mind,  had  now  suddenly  broken  through,  releasing  a 
reservoir  of  strength  beneath  that  gushed  up,  wiped  away 
his  fatigue  and  gave  him  the  alert  confidence  of  position 
and  the  brilliant  joy  of  success.  He  was  holding  down  a 
big  job,  his  employer  liked  him;  so  thought  came  with 
brittle  snap,  his  eyes  glittered,  and  he  jotted  down  his 
notes  with  savage  keenness.  In  fact,  the  relentless 
speeding-up  that  J.  J.  enforced  upon  him  was  already 
bringing  a  more  rapid  perfecting  than  months  of  the 
school.  And  so,  with  a  growing  lustiness,  he  watched 
the  antics  of  the  industrial  captain. 

The  wonder  of  the  place  was  that  each  event  that  came 
along  was  unexpected,  pulsing  with  the  quality  of  mystery, 
romance,  adventure.  The  day  was  a  series  of  explosive 
surprises,  and  the  constant  stimulation  keyed  life  to  an 
electric  tenseness.  No  drudge-work  here,  no  dull  repeti- 

160 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

.tion  of  the  days  as  in  his  clerkship.  It  was  all  the  differ 
ence  between  being  a  ferry  captain  and  a  pirate. 

At  nine  Martin  came  in. 

"Here  are  five  letters  about  Faversham's  story." 

"Faversham?"  cried  J.  J.  "Who  the  devil's  Faver- 
sham?" 

"Don't  you  know?  We  printed  his  first  story  in  the 
September  number — you  know,  the  story  about  the 
drunken  father." 

"  That  piffle?  Well,  don't  stand  there  all  morning  with 
the  juice  dripping.  Use  your  brains;  be  terse." 

"Aw,  cut  it!"  cried  Martin.  "I've  been  trying  to  tell 
you  for  ten  minutes ;  five  people,  one  in  Indian  Territory, 
one  in  Chicago,  one  in  New  York,  and  two  in  Ohio  have 
written  in  praising  the  story." 

"Let's  see."  J.  J.  glanced  at  the  letters.  Then  he 
jumped  out  of  his  seat,  his  brain  glowing. 

"He's  the  coming  man!"  he  cried.  "Take  this,  Mr. 
Trask:  'My  dear  Mr.  Faversham, — Your  story  seems  to 
have  stirred  the  animals  in  great  shape.  We  are  hearing 
about  it  on  all  sides.  But  that  does  not  surprise  me; 
I  have  felt  right  along  that  you  sounded  a  new  note — the 
note  of  social  sympathy.  I  feel  that  you  have  a  great 
future  before  you,  that  your  genius  will  yet  make  you  a 
darling  of  the  American  people.  Come  up  and  take 
lunch  with  me.  I  think  we  could  arrange  for  a  story  a 
month." 

Thus  blithely  and  easily  could  this  man  touch  with  his 
finger  the  trembling  skepticism  and  obscuration  of  strug 
gling  talent,  and  evoke,  at  one  light  contact,  an  exultant 
soul.  Kirby  thrilled  at  this  modern  use  of  magic.  Rub 
the  lamp  and,  presto!  atomic  Faversham,  doing  hack 
work  in  a  hall  bedroom,  becomes  the  great,  popular 
author — Everett  Hardy  Faversham.  Of  course,  if  five 
letters  somehow  erred  in  judgment,  then  a  balloon  was 
inflated  dangerously,  and  a  Faversham,  called  to  do  some 
thing  greater  than  his  power,  was  doomed  to  annihilation. 

161 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Such  instances  were  common ;  the  mail  was  full  of  them ; 
but  that  very  morning  brought  one  into  the  room.  J.  J. 
was  just  in  the  thick  of  an  amazing  article  he  was  dic 
tating,  an  article  headed  "Why  Women  Can't  Ride 
Astride,"  and  Kirby  was  just  seeing  a  great  light  through 
the  words  "Women's  legs  are  round,  men's  flat;  hence, 
only  men's  legs  can  get  a  firm  grip  on  a  horse"  when  J.  J., 
glancing  up  accidentally,  became  aware  of  the  old  butler 
standing  at  the  door.  He  had  been  there  five  min 
utes. 

J.  J.  clapped  a  hand  to  his  head. 

"My  train  of  thought!"  he  roared.  "Too  late.  What's 
the  message?" 

The  butler  brought  a  card,  and  J.  J.  glanced  at  it. 

"Knox!  Knox!  Has  to  bring  a  stink  up  here.  Oh, 
show  him  up!"  He  turned  to  Kirby.  "That  fellow  will 
give  my  whole  morning  a  bad  taste." 

And  he  stood,  facing  the  door,  hands  clasped  behind  his 
back,  chin  nestling  in  his  high  collar.  Kirby  looked  at 
him  and  wondered  of  what  he  was  reminded  ....  Yes, 
Napoleon,  a  bulkier-bodied  Napoleon.  It  was  like  a 
flash  in  the  dark.  Now  he  knew  what  J.  J.  was  up  to. 
And,  in  fact,  over  J.  J.'s  desk  hung  a  large  picture  of  the 
Little  Corporal. 

Then  a  sorry-looking  fellow  of  thirty-five  entered. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Knox,"  said  J.  J. 

"Good  morning.  Mr.  Harrington,  I  came  up  to  see 
about  the  stories — why  you  don't  take  them  any  more." 

J.  J.  spoke  eloquently  in  a  hurt  voice. 

"Is  there  any  need  to  ask?  I  can't  say  how  disap 
pointed  I  am  in  you.  After  such  high  expectations !  You 
haven't  made  good,  Mr.  Knox — "  And  as  Knox  started 
to  protest  J.  J.'s  hand  went  up  and  his  voice  deepened. 
"No,  no,  you  haven't  made  good — " 

"But,  Mr.  Harrington—" 

"Let  me  finish.  I  gave  you  every  opportunity.  I 
singled  you  out  and  raised  you  up.  I'm  deeply  disap- 

162 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

pointed.  I  expected  you  to  develop,  grow,  hit  harder. 
But  you've  lost  your  punch.  You've  gone  back  on  me. 
No,  don't  break  in,  please.  I'm  convinced,  Mr.  Knox, 
that  you  weren't  cut  out  for  a  writer;  some  other  work — 
you'd  better  try  something  else." 

"But  my  last  story,  'The  First-Born'—" 

"That,"  said  J.  J.,  damning  it  completely,  "isn't  a 
story  at  all.  It's  a  sketch." 

"It's  the  same  stuff  you  always  took." 

"Come,  come,  don't  do  my  thinking  for  me.  Sordid, 
your  writing  is  sordid.  And  the  public  is  tired  of  reading 
unpleasant  things.  The  tired  business  man  needs  re 
freshment,  romance,  optimism." 

Knox  spoke  quiveringly: 

"Mr.  Harrington,  you  raised  my  expectations  so  in  the 
beginning  that  I  took  my  wife  and  child — brought  them 
to  New  York.  And  now  you're  throwing  me  over. 
What  is  there  for  me  to  do?" 

J.  J.'s  voice  became  soft,  melodious: 

"Why,  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Knox,  I'm  sorry.  This  is  a  hard 
world,  and  we  all  get  sandbagged  in  the  end.  What  more 
can  I  say?  We  all  make  our  mistakes.  And  if  I  could 
put  your  personal  affairs  before  the  good  of  the  magazine, 
believe  me,  I  would.  But  you  yourself,  as  a  fair-minded 
man,  know  that  this  is  impossible." 

Knox  gave  him  one  despairing  look,  turned,  and 
shambled  out,  a  broken  man.  Thus  neatly  and  with  an 
easy  gesture  J.  J.  stuck  a  pin  through  the  balloon  he  him 
self  had  inflated,  and  one  of  his  former  great  men  was 
blithely  dumped  into  the  garbage-heap  of  the  failures. 
But  he  did  the  deed  so  convincingly,  and  with  such  sure 
touch,  that  Kirby  entirely  missed  the  tragedy  of  a  blighted 
career  and  exulted  in  the  free,  big  power  that  made  or 
marred  little  human  beings.  J.  J.  seemed  some  sort  of 
a  god  who  could  call  a  soul  into  life  and  then  smite  it. 
Kirby  was  made  drunk  with  the  feeling  that  he  shared 
the  power  of  this  god,  that  he  was  J.  J.'s  good  right  arm, 
12  163 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

or  at  least  his  pen,  that  he  was  on  the  side  of  the  Thunderer 
and  helped  to  wield  Thor's  hammer. 

This  feeling  was  sharpened,  and,  in  fact,  all  the  domi 
nance  and  fierce  lust  of  authority  was  evoked  in  Kirby 
by  an  order  J.  J.  now  dictated: 

TO   THE   STAFF  AND   HEADS   OF   DEPARTMENTS 

Hereafter  all  reports  and  requests  will  be  handed  in  to  Mr. 
Trask,  and  come  through  him  to  me. 

You  will  also  consider  any  orders  that  he  gives  as  emanating 
from  me. 

"You  see,"  said  J.  J.,  smiling,  "I  want  my  secretary  to 
be  a  real  one." 

So  Kirby  went  down  to  the  factory  with  a  new  haughti 
ness,  a  new  spring  in  his  walk,  a  new  fire  in  his  eye.  He 
typed  the  order  and  took  copies  of  it  about.  The  seven 
received  it  ruefully,  but  before  the  gray  eyes  of  this  bull- 
headed  young  man  they  maintained  a  discreet  silence; 
all  save  Martin  and  Brent. 

Martin  muttered: 

"The  old  man's  crazy.     You've  only  been  here  a  day." 

Brent  looked  at  Kirby  sharply. 

"Ha!"  he  laughed.  "I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  you're 
going  to  be  the  next  favorite." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Kirby. 

"Oh,  he's  always  got  one.  Boyd  was  his  last.  Now 
look  at  him.  He's  leading  a  dog's  life.  Watch  out,  Kirby !' ' 

Again  the  notion  of  quicksands.  But  Kirby  laughed  it 
away;  now  that  he  was  aroused  and  had  power,  he  felt  that 
in  a  pinch  he  could  even  flatten  the  strength  of  J.  J. 

"I'm  not  like  these  others,"  he  told  himself.  "J.  J.  is 
up  against  something  new  this  time." 

So  he  went  back  to  the  room  of  the  Superman.  But 
when  he  reached  the  open  door  he  heard  a  string  of  hot 
filth  and  profanity  punctured  by  the  angry  comments  of 
Edgar.  Father  and  son  were  damning  each  other. 

164 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

Kirby  entered  on  the  words: 

"Ought  to  kick  you  put.  You've  not  even  got  the 
guts  of  Mr.  Trask." 

This  was  obvious ;  but  Edgar,  seeing  Kirby,  grew  white- 
faced,  and  sputtered: 

"I  won't  have  you  putting  him  over  me.  I  wouldn't 
take  a  hello  from  him." 

"Wouldn't .  .  .  you  hell-roaring,"  etc.    "I'll  make  you!" 

Whereupon  Edgar  rushed  out  and  slammed  the  door. 
To  Kirby's  amazement,  he  saw  tears  trickling  down 
J.  J.'s  face.  The  Captain  of  Industry  seemed  broken,  and 
in  his  voice  was  quivering  pathos. 

"I  shouldn't  have  spoken  that  way  before  you;  but" — 
he  paused  and  could  barely  speak — "you  can't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  a  father." 

This  was  wonderful.  It  showed  that  the  great  man  had 
his  human  weakness,  that  as  a  father  he  failed  as  most 
mortals  do. 

But  a  little  later  he  was  dictating  a  letter  to  Langley, 
that  "  No  matter  what  ridicule  and  abuse  we  must  endure, 
I  shall  go  down  to  everlasting  ruin  with  you  to  establish 
your  great  truth.  Man  is  destined  to  fly;  every  element 
must  give  before  his  spirit  of  conquest;  Earth  is  his  .  ..." 

Such  were  the  kaleidoscopic  changes  of  this  magical 
man.  He  seemed  to  be  everywhere  at  once,  slaying  here, 
upraising  there,  weeping,  laughing,  cursing,  scheming. 
Now  he  was  heart  and  soul  in  the  campaign  against  child 
labor,  now  risking  his  fortune  and  his  life  in  pioneering 
some  great  new  project.  Surely,  thought  Kirby,  he  was  a 
genius,  or  at  least  a  near-genius;  big  enough  to  fight  battles 
for  democracy,  to  send  fine  dreams  among  the  drudges, 
to  shed  his  charm  on  lonely  farms  and  shabby  slums, 
to  stand  by  a  Langley  while  all  the  world  scoffed,  to  toil 
terribly,  to  swing  aggregations  of  men.  Yes,  he  was 
typically  a  big  American,  not  struggling  merely  for  power 
and  money,  though  he  wanted  both,  but  also  engaged  in  a 
spiritual  enterprise — a  desire  to  do  large  and  ample  deeds, 

165 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

to  create  a  greater  America,  to  educate  the  people,  to 
further  science  and  what  he  thought  was  democracy. 
But  still,  was  he  truly  great?  There  was  a  Lincoln  who 
could  loaf  and  invite  his  soul,  be  undecided,  worried,  and 
wait  and  wait  for  the  hidden  truth,  and  who  had  gentle 
pity  and  helped  men  by  taking  on  his  own  shoulders  a  part 
of  their  guilt  and  their  grief.  No,  J.  J.  was  not  a  Lincoln, 
but  a  restless  half-genius,  impatient,  cruelly  swift,  lacking 
poise. 

His  charm  was  that  of  an  imaginative  boy  with  a  king's 
power — a  sort  of  boy-poet.  And  this  made  him  a  perfect 
popular  editor — the  magnetic  needle  deflected  by  every 
faint  change  in  the  popular  current — giving  up  his  heart 
and  soul  ten  times  a  day  to  each  new  scheme  that  sprang, 
full-grown,  from  his  heated  mind.  He  could  grasp  the 
straw  of  an  idea,  and  out  of  this  flimsy  and  sordid  material 
build  a  glorious  cloud-world  of  vision  and  color ;  and  then, 
like  a  boy,  after  the  passage  of  hours  or  days,  when  the  new 
scheme  began  to  stale,  he  flung  it  petulantly  away,  already 
lost  in  something  else.  Unreliable,  easily  promising,  rarely 
performing,  lovable,  hatable,  unique.  Talent  might  suf 
fer,  but  his  swift  responses  kept  his  magazine  salable — 
a  revel  of  new  sensations  for  a  jaded  and  overworked 
people. 

AndKirby  exulted  in  it;  he  felt  that  he  now  lived  where 
life  was  hottest,  where  the  speed  was  greatest,  where 
power  went  forth  changing  and  manipulating  the  world. 
Here  he  belonged,  for  just  this  he  had  come  on  his  lonely 
pilgrimage  from  Trent.  And  Kirby,  inexperienced,  felt 
sure  that  this  violence  was  a  part  of  greatness.  He  did 
not  know,  of  course,  that  before  the  financial  troubles 
began  J.  J.  had  been  one  of  the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of 
men.  The  lack  of  money  was  poisoning  him. 

But  the  proof  of  his  power  came  again  and  again. 
Martin  stopped  in  at  eleven-thirty  and  said  that  Hank, 
the  foreman  of  the  press-room,  was  raising  trouble.  He  was 
a  little  drunk  and  was  going  around  swearing  that  he  was 

166 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

going  to  "do"  for  J.  J.,  knock  him  down  when  he  met  him 
next. 

"Tell  him  to  come  here  at  once,"  snapped  J.  J. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  came,  an  ugly  giant  slouching 
through  the  doorway.  He  had  a  great  head,  black  eyes, 
and  unshaven  cheeks;  he  was  in  overalls,  and  his  bare 
arms  undulated  with  serpentine  muscles;  his  big  fists 
were  clenched,  and  he  kept  muttering  ferociously.  It 
seemed  to  Kirby  that  J.  J.,  who  was  by  far  the  smaller 
man,  was  in  real  danger. 

"What  the  devil  you  want?"  growled  Hank,  ominously. 

J.  J.  merely  turned,  without  rising. 

"I  want  you  to  be  a  man,  Hank,  and  not  a  big  beast." 
His  voice  was  sharply  quiet. 

"Jes'  get  up,"  muttered  Hank,  "and  I'll  make  a  floor- 
mop  of  yer;  jes'  get  up." 

He  advanced  slowly. 

"Hank,"  said  J.  J.,  with  wonderful  sweetness,  "three 
months  ago  I  called  at  your  house  and  saw  your  wife  and 
children." 

Hank  paused  at  these  words,  his  curiosity  aroused. 

"Your  wife  is  a  lovely  young  woman,"  J.  J.  continued, 
"and  the  children  are  as  fine  as  a  man  could  want.  They 
love  you,  I  could  see  that.  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  such 
a  family,  yes,  instead  of  breaking  their  hearts  by  acting 
like  a  big  beast.  What  will  your  wife  say  when  you  come 
home  in  this  condition  ?  And  what  will  your  own  children 
think  of  their  father?" 

Hank  stared  at  him,  and,  being  elemental  in  his  emo 
tions,  this  primitive  appeal  stabbed  him  in  his  heart. 
Suddenly  his  shoulders  heaved,  and  he  began  to  sob 
heavily. 

"Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  muttered. 

"  Hank,  you're  a  good  man  at  heart.  Now  you  go  back 
to  your  work  and  behave  yourself.  That's  all." 

And  out  Hank  went.  J.  J.  had  known  exactly  the 
right  thing  to  do;  unerringly  he  touched  the  central  nerve. 

167 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Kirby's  brain  was  hardly  quick  enough  to  react  on  all 
these  revelations,  but  again  he  felt  that  he  could  almost 
love  this  man. 

Lunch-time  came. 

"It's  late,"  said  J.  J.  "Come  down  and  have  a  bite 
with  us." 

Kirby  did  so,  and  at  once  wished  he  hadn't.  About  the 
table  sat  six  of  the  cursed  seven;  J.  J.;  Kirby;  Mrs.  Har 
rington,  a  stout,  faded-faced,  silent  woman;  and  a  young 
couple,  friends  of  the  family.  This  was  bad  enough ;  but 
worse,  the  table  had  not  the  familiar  table-cloth,  merely 
doilies  under  the  plates.  This  made  Kirby  nervous — the 
table  seemed  so  vulgarly  naked.  He  blushed,  and  sat 
with  sealed  lips,  again  the  outsider. 

Then,  glancing  up  between  courses,  he  was  horrified  to 
see  the  young  lady  smoking  a  cigarette.  He  had  seen 
women  of  the  streets  do  this,  of  course,  yet  the  sight  was 
inexpressibly  shocking.  It  but  sharpened  his  speech- 
lessness. 

A  discussion  was  going  on  about  hypnotism. 

"I've  practised  it, "  said  Martin.     ' '  Want  to  see  a  test ?' ' 

They  did. 

"Wait  till  William  comes  in." 

William  was  Martin's  valet,  and  also  waited  on  the  table. 
There  was  silence  while  they  waited.  Finally  the  kitchen 
door  opened,  and  pale-faced,  servile  William  came  in,  a 
platter  on  his  upraised  hand. 

He  had  not  taken  ten  steps  before  Martin  murmured: 

"Sleep,  William,"  and  made  passes  with  his  hand. 

William  stopped  as  if  brought  up  by  a  bullet,  platter 
still  upraised,  eyes  vacant,  stiffened  into  a  trance.  Then 
Martin  released  him,  and  William  went  on  totally  uncon 
scious  of  his  dramatic  act. 

Kirby  felt  again  that  this  house  was  ghastly.  He  de 
cided  never  to  eat  there  again. 

J.  J.  started  for  town  after  lunch,  and  Kirby  was  left 
alone  for  the  afternoon.  He  toiled  ferociously,  and, 

168 


TROUBLE    CONTINUES 

though  by  six  o'clock  he  was  so  fatigued  that  he  thought  he 
should  sink  asleep  over  the  machine,  and  though  his  back 
and  his  fingers  ached  unendurably,  he  felt  brightly  happy. 
He  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  coming  on. 

Out  in  the  lovely  twilight  he  and  Brent  walked  home 
together.  The  woods  were  ghostly,  and  in  the  orange- 
colored  sky  the  evening  star  sparkled  alone. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  it?"  asked  Brent. 

"Oh,  it's  great,"  said  Kirby. 

"I  hope  you  keep  on  thinking  so,"  said  the  plain-spoken 
manuscript  clerk. 

The  side  street  was  shaded  like  a  lane  by  large  maple- 
trees,  and  they  stepped  softly  over  the  fallen  leaves, 
clicked  the  gate,  entered  the  quiet  house,  and  went  up  and 
washed.  But  Kirby's  excited  mind  kept  beating  on  in 
this  nest  of  peace,  this  soil-deep  harvest-hush.  The  great 
evening  laid  no  cool  finger  to  his  lips,  folded  him  with  no 
garment  of  oblivion  and  homely  joy. 

He  went  down  to  the  supper-table,  buoyant,  eager  to 
brag  a  little.  A  jolly  spirit  ruled  the  room,  and  Kirby 
now  became  thoroughly  conscious  of  its  occupants.  Last 
night  he  had  been  dimly  aware  of  being  introduced  to  a 
daughter;  to-night,  almost  with  amazement,  he  noticed 
her,  a  girl  of  eighteen — Myrtle  Allison. 

Her  brother  was  teasing  her. 

"You're  not  dressed  up  to-night,  are  you?" 

Her  laugh  tinkled  delightfully,  and  she  blushed  quickly. 

"Mr.  Trask,"  said  Fred  Allison,  "why  do  you  suppose 
Myrtle  is  dressed  fit  to  kill  to-night?  Can  you  guess?" 

"Fred!"  cried  Myrtle.     "Please  don't." 

' '  Leave  the  girl  be, ' '  said  Mrs.  Allison,  laughing.  ' '  Your 
turn  will  come  next,  Fred,  if  you're  not  careful." 

Fred  roared  with  laughter. 

"  Don't  you  believe  it !  Well,  sis,  what  are  you  blushing 
about?" 

She  became  confused,  and  looked  away. 

"You're  too  mean,"  she  whispered,  ready  to  cry. 

169 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

For  she  had  met  Kirby's  eyes,  and  she  saw  that  he  saw. 
Her  simplicity  and  shyness  could  not  bear  this  candor. 

Her  father  swiftly  changed  the  talk  to  shield  her : 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  J.  J.,  Mr.  Trask?" 

But  Kirby's  desire  to  boast  had  faded  in  this  homely 
atmosphere. 

"  I  think  he  knows  how  to  make  people  work, ' '  he  said, 
and  they  laughed  with  delight. 

They  had  barely  finished  supper  when  a  young  man  en 
tered,  and  Myrtle  rose  to  meet  him.  And  Kirby  had 
revealed  to  him  the  exquisite  glory  of  her  girlhood.  She 
seemed  to  hold,  for  her  few  moments,  the  light  and  vanish 
ing  wonder  of  youth;  in  her  silvery  laughter  and  the  wild- 
rose  coloring  of  her  cheeks,  in  her  slender  grace,  in  her 
softened  hair  and  the  rainy  freshness  of  her  eyes,  there  was 
gathered  for  a  brief  hour  the  dreams  of  the  fields  in 
April,  the  float  of  the  clouds  at  sunrise,  the  transient 
and  tragic  loveliness  of  the  spring. 

Watching  her,  Kirby  felt  the  day  fall  from  him;  ambi 
tion,  blood-tasting,  the  mad  chaos  of  J.  J.,  the  ruinous 
power,  passed  like  a  dissolving  cloud  over  this  young  girl. 
Not  since  Mrs.  Waverley  had  left  him  had  Kirby  felt  so 
cleansed  and  free.  It  was  as  if  he  had  two  natures — one, 
the  fighter;  the  other,  the  tender  comrade  and  lover; 
and  as  if  it  needed  a  woman  or  a  girl  to  keep  the  more 
gracious  one  alive. 


XVI 

THE   FAVORITE 

KIRBY  now  rapidly  developed  that  dual  personality  so 
common  in  American  life.  He  was,  to  use  the  popular 
phrase,  one  man  in  business,  another  at  home.  In  the  fac 
tory  he  was  haughty,  secretive,  decisive,  loving  to  see  his 
will  break  down  the  wills  of  others;  he  exulted  in  sheer 
strength  and  sly  fighting;  but  when,  at  the  day's  end, 
he  stepped  down  the  lane  of  maples,  he  was  willing  to  have 
a  young  girl  take,  as  it  were,  his  heavy  armor  from  his 
bruised  shoulders,  helmet  from  his  head  and  lance  from 
his  hand,  and  then  envelop  him  in  tenderness  and  song. 
She  had  a  sweet,  clear  voice,  and  often  in  the  crowded 
front  parlor,  with  the  family  lounging  about,  she  played 
on  the  piano  and  sang  negro  songs  and  some  of  the  senti 
mental  American  balladry.  George  Westcott,  her  lover, 
went  out  to  Chicago  shortly  after  Kirby's  arrival,  and  for 
a  time  Kirby  saw  much  of  her. 

She  would  consent  to  Sunday-afternoon  walks  along 
the  roads  around  Inwood,  and  they  would  loiter  pleasantly 
along,  with  the  automobiles  dusting  by  them;  or  some 
times  take  a  trolley  to  the  sea  and  spend  a  few  hours  on  the 
sand.  At  such  times  Kirby  was  liquid-clear  in  his  emo 
tions,  chivalrous,  charming,  full  of  mirth  and  wistful 
tenderness.  But  she  was  very  loyal  to  Westcott,  and  their 
companionship  developed  little  further.  Her  innocence, 
her  emotions  as  changeful  as  the  sea,  her  elusive  and  quick 
beauty,  her  soft  voice  and  gentle  manners,  brought  all  that 
was  beautiful  in  Kirby  to  the  surface  and  kept  it  from 
dying. 

171 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"I  wonder,"  said  Allison  once,  "how  such  a  nice, 
thoughtful  fellow  ever  gets  on  with  J.  J." 

But  he  did  get  on,  and  went  with  amazing  rapidity. 
Kirby  always  needed  something  big  to  bring  him  out, 
and  his  new  job  was,  in  a  way,  gigantic.  It  aroused  his 
whole  nature  and  developed  one  resource  after  another. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  was  an  expert  in  stenography  and 
typewriting,  easily  outdistancing  the  speedy  J.  J.  But 
he  was  not  content  with  merely  secretarial  work  and  the 
fun  of  watching  the  chameleon  changes  of  the  business; 
he  went  about,  poking  in  here  and  there,  and  mastering 
this  and  that  detail,  the  secrets  of  this  and  that  depart 
ment.  His  brain  grew  active  with  schemes,  and  almost 
daily  he  had  some  vital  suggestion  which  J.  J.  eagerly 
seized  upon,  expanded,  and  put  into  action.  In  fact, 
J.  J.  found  him  stimulating. 

"Mr.  Trask,"  he  said,  "there's  something  in  you — 
receptivity,  sympathy,  imagination — that  gives  me  fresh 
ness." 

And  Kirby  found  that  J.  J.  was  a  master  in  absorbing 
other  brains,  draining  them  of  their  best,  and  using  the 
fresh  strength  in  his  own  work.  But  Kirby,  instead  of 
being  drained  by  the  process,  used  the  same  method 
himself  and  drew  from  others,  and  even  from  J.  J.,  ideas 
and  manners  and  ways  of  work. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  became  known  as  J.  J.'s 
favorite,  and  hence  feared.  Once  or  twice  he  carried 
tales  back  that  resulted  in  explosions  in  the  editorial 
office.  Besides  that,  he  showed  a  native  power  of  his  own 
— a  haughty  hardness,  an  abrupt  speech,  a  flash  of  eyes, 
and  overbearing  carriage  that  provoked  timorousness  in 
others.  He  was  typically  American  in  the  swiftness  with 
which  he  acquired  a  whole  new  set  of  manners — learning 
a  way  of  eating  by  watching  the  staff  at  table,  a  way  of 
ridding  himself  of  questioners  from  Martin,  this  gesture 
and  lilt  of  speech  from  J.  J.,  and  that  walk  from  Edgar. 
As  a  result,  he  began  to  dress  more  fastidiously,  getting 

172 


THE    FAVORITE 

his  clothes  made  to  order,  wearing  a  stick-pin  in  his  tie, 
and  picking  colors  and  cut  with  expert  eye.  He  also 
began  an  acquaintanceship  with  Hurley,  the  associate 
editor,  and  through  him  learned  how  to  play  golf,  a  game 
he  didn't  much  care  for  in  itself,  but  which  brought  him 
in  social  contact  with  successful  men.  In  fact,  Kirby  had 
no  use  for  games;  business  was  the  real  game,  after  all, 
for  it  touched  all  life,  whereas  a  little  play  game  did 
nothing  but  bring  out  a  facile  skill  and  ended  in  a  few 
points  either  way.  Besides,  he  could  never  bear  to  lose. 
He  always  lost  his  temper  with  the  game. 

The  staff  was  jealous  of  him,  naturally.  His  rise  was  a 
matter  of  a  few  weeks;  he  was  young,  and  they  found  their 
years  of  experience  overridden  by  this  haughty  young  man. 
But  his  power  was  too  real  to  be  conspired  against,  and  it 
grew  from  month  to  month.  J.  J.  trusted  him  implicitly, 
left  much  of  the  correspondence  to  be  answered  by  his 
secretary,  and,  when  absent,  allowed  Kirby  to  carry  on  the 
routine  with  full  authority.  He  got  in  the  habit,  too,  of 
having  Kirby  investigate  various  departments  and  re 
port  on  how  they  worked  and  what  results  they  showed; 
and  the  silent,  abrupt,  hard  young  man  made  the  em 
ployees  quail. 

As,  for  instance,  ringer  on  report  sheet,  he  might  say  to 
Meggs,  head  of  subscription  department: 

"You  show  two  hundred  less  subscribers  this  May  than 
last.  Why?" 

Meggs  would  try  to  be  pleasant. 

"Lots  of  reasons,  Mr.  Trask.     Hard  times — " 

Kirby  would  break  in: 

' '  Wendell's  Magazine  shows  an  increase,  I'm  told.  Hard 
times,  Mr.  Meggs?" 

Meggs  would  color  up. 

"Well,  if  I  must  say  so,  the  magazine  hasn't  been  up  to 
the  mark  lately." 

"Exactly  where?" 

"Well,  human  interest — " 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"That's  guesswork.  Let  me  see  the  circular  you  sent 
out  this  month  and  also  that  of  last  May." 

Kirby  would  then  study  these. 

"I  thought  so.  Nothing  new;  same  old  drool;  you'd 
better  have  a  talk  with  J.  J.  Do  you  think  people  will 
bite  the  same  bait  twice?" 

And  Kirby  would  light  a  whopping  big  black  cigar,  for 
he  was  learning  to  be  a  great  smoker  now,  and  a  great 
drinker.  First,  the  terrific  drive  of  work  required  the  whip 
of  stimulation  to  keep  it  going,  and,  second,  drinking  put 
him  "next"  to  his  associates  and  the  newcomer,  and 
smoking  gave  him  a  guard  against  intrusion.  Cigar  in 
mouth,  he  could  take  a  puff  when  he  was  embarrassed  for 
an  answer,  or  when  he  wanted  to  stand  off  an  encroaching 
power.  Five  quiet  puffs  would  disconcert  an  unruly  or 
angry  man,  and  they  gave  Kirby  a  great  air  of  reserve  and 
aloofness  and  stored  strength.  He  soon  became  known 
by  his  cigar  and  the  way  he  twisted  up  one  whole  side  of 
his  face  to  keep  it  in  place. 

There  were  nights,  too,  when  he  reveled  in  New  York  to 
"  blow  off  steam,"  as  he  put  it.  For  at  times  the  compan 
ionship  of  gentle  Myrtle  did  not  rid  him  of  his  frenzied  but 
repressed  excitement.  He  fell  also  into  a  habit  of  eating 
big  meals  and  eating  with  thoughtless  speed.  And  as  a 
result  of  the  drinking,  the  food,  the  more  luxurious  habits 
of  life,  he  gradually  began  to  get  a  little  stout,  his  face 
filled  out,  until  he  looked  like  a  sleek,  dangerous  fellow, 
with  bristling  gray  eyes.  He  was  always,  however,  very 
handsome  in  his  way,  and  women  invariably  were  at 
tracted  to  him. 

His  power  over  J.  J.  was  very  real.  One  morning, 
about  three  months  after  Kirby's  coming,  J.  J.  was  in  an 
unusually  tempestuous  mood.  He  found  a  bad  error  in 
one  of  the  letters.  Quick  as  a  flash  he  turned  on  his 
secretary. 

"You  damned  young — "  he  began,  but  he  got  no 
further.  Kirby  rose  abruptly,  his  cheeks  hot. 


THE    FAVORITE 

"I  resign  my  job,  Mr.  Harrington,"  he  snapped,  and 
started  for  the  door. 

J.  J.  arose  at  once. 

"Mr.  Trask." 

Kirby  turned.  He  saw  J.  J.'s  face,  agitated,  wistful, 
almost  tearful. 

"I  want  to  apologize  to  you,"  said  J.  J.  "You're 
quite  right.  I  respect  you  for  your  feelings;  I  think  all 
the  more  of  you." 

And  so  Kirby  came  back,  and  remained,  amazingly,  the 
only  uncursed  man  on  the  premises. 

He  was  kept  supremely  busy.  Sometimes  he  accom 
panied  J.  J.  to  New  York  and  took  dictation  on  the  train; 
sometimes  he  was  sent  alone  to  the  city  to  interview  some 
author  or  placate  some  creditor.  When  summer  came, 
and  J.  J.  had  to  be  away  for  several  weeks,  Kirby  was 
allowed  a  free  hand  with  routine  work ;  and  in  the  follow 
ing  summer  he  was  even  allowed  to  put  into  effect  a  system 
he  had  originated  for  handling  the  mail-bags.  Naturally, 
each  time  he  asked  for  a  raise  in  salary  he  received  it, 
until  at  last  he  had  forty  a  week.  Out  of  this  he  saved 
only  ten,  however,  for  he  was  a  liberal  spender. 

And  all  the  time  he  gloried  in  the  work.  He  had  little 
use  for  the  editorial  side  of  the  magazine;  he  reveled, 
rather,  in  the  audacity  and  imaginative  greatness  of 
the  business,  the  storminess  of  J.  J.,  the  subjugation  of 
employees  by  that  terrible  man,  the  hand-to-hand  con 
flicts  he  engaged  in  with  every  human  being  that  appeared. 
There  was  continual  storm  and  stress  in  the  place;  hardly 
a  week  went  by  without  J.  J.  uprooting  the  methods  of 
work  and  instituting  some  new  system. 

"Won't  give  them  time  to  cake,"  he  said.  "A  caked 
thing  is  dead." 

And  men  came  and  went  in  swift  careers,  raised  by  this 
magician  at  one  season  to  be  dropped  at  another.  And 
there  were  all  sorts  of  problems  to  be  met :  there  was  a  vast 
sum  owing  to  the  paper  company ;  artists  and  authors  were 

I7S 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

clamoring  for  checks,  and  certain  banks  refused  to  make 
further  loans.  But  Kirby  persistently  shut  his  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  apparently  treading  perilously  on 
quicksand. 

No  other  man  had  been  a  secretary  so  long ;  but  Kirby, 
as  he  himself  knew,  was  out  of  the  ordinary  run.  He  had 
no  weak  kindliness,  no  qualms  of  conscience,  no  woman's 
intervention  to  hold  him  back.  He  argued  that  life  is  a 
fight,  and  the  victory  is  with  the  hardiest  fighter;  that 
this  is  the  law  of  nature,  and  that  it  behooves  men  to  live 
within  the  law. 

And  so  came  the  autumn  of  the  second  year,  and  then, 
one  morning  in  October,  an  unusual  occurrence.  Kirby 
was  typing  in  his  little  office  when  he  heard  shouts  and  a 
scuffling  noise.  He  went  out  in  the  hall  just  in  time  to 
see  the  door  of  Boyd's  room  slam  shut.  A  cowering 
office-boy  greeted  him,  and  the  staff  and  other  employees 
were  emerging  from  the  other  offices. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Kirby. 

"Mr.  Boyd  and  Mr.  Martin  are  scrapping." 

It  was  so,  really  so,  and  it  was  delightful.  A  thrilled 
group  stood  there  while  furniture  crashed,  glass  was 
shattered,  and  elemental  English  pierced  the  air. 

Hurley  and  Edgar  took  bets. 

"Ten  to  five  on  Martin,"  said  Hurley. 

"Take  you  up,"  cried  Edgar;  "Boyd  knows  jiu-jitsu." 

"Aye,"  said  Hurley,  "but  Martin  has  a  solar-plexus 
left." 

Meggs  held  the  stakes,  tittering. 

"It  ain't  jiu-jitsu  or  lefts,  "he  mumbled;  "it's  chairs  and 
ink-wells." 

Crash,  bang,  and  then  the  impact  of  bodies  on  the 
straining  door. 

"You  little  English  pup,"  they  heard  from  Martin, 
"put  down  that  paper-cutter!" 

"Not  till  I've  jabbed  you,"  said  Boyd. 

"Murder,"  mumbled  Meggs. 

176 


THE    FAVORITE 

And  Kirby  felt  that  now  the  real  spirit  of  the  place  was 
asserting  itself  in  its  most  normal  way;  just  this  was  done 
daily,  though  without  fists  and  bloodshed. 

Just  then  J.  J.  came  swiftly  up  the  stairs.  He  came 
rarely,  but  had  a  most  unfortunate  way  of  coming  at  the 
moment  of  crisis.  The  group  turned  pale. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  J.  J. 

They  told  him,  and  he  knocked  vigorously  on  the  door. 

"Martin,"  he  shouted,  "come  out  of  there!" 

A  hush  within ;  the  door  opened,  and  the  group,  craning 
their  necks,  gaped  in  on  a  scene  of  desolate  ruin.  Chairs 
lay  broken,  Boyd's  desk  was  naked,  paper  strewed  the 
floor,  and  the  walls  and  floor  ran  black  and  red  ink. 
There  stood  the  two  combatants,  breathing  in  gasps, 
clothes  torn,  fists  clenched,  like  two  caught  school-boys. 

J.  J.  spoke  hoarsely: 

"I  can't  speak  for  inexpressible  shame — two  grown  men 
— heads  of  this  business — to  indulge  in  this  disgraceful 
row.  Martin,  go  up  to  your  room;  Boyd,  I  will  see  you 
later." 

He  turned  and  passed  out,  Martin  following  like  a 
whipped  dog,  and  silence  returned.  But  the  room  had 
to  be  rekalsomined,  and  when  Boyd  put  in  a  bill  for 
seventy-five  cents  for  having  a  black  eye  painted  the 
amount  was  paid  by  the  cashier  and  the  bill  duly  entered 
by  the  bookkeeper  on  the  books. 

The  next  morning  Boyd  was  summoned  to  J.  J.'s 
room.  Kirby  was  there  getting  dictation.  The  former 
favorite,  with  his  painted  eye,  came  in  very  quietly.  J.  J. 
turned  on  him: 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?" 

"Yes,"  said  Boyd,  in  his  low,  English  voice,  "when  I 
came  to  you  I  was  a  decent  fellow.  Now  I'm  little  less 
than  a  beast.  I  beg  to  resign  my  position." 

"I  accept,"  said  J.  J.  "You  can  go  to-day.  Good 
morning." 

And,  swallowing  tears,  another  broken  man  passed  out 

177 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

from  the  room  that  was  a  very  rack  for  the  cracking  and 
rending  of  the  human  soul. 

J.  J.  sat  in  thought  a  moment,  then  looked  at  Kirby. 

"You  could  get  a  stenographer  to  help  you  out  with  my 
work,"  he  said,  "and  so  be  free  to  carry  Boyd's  work  for 
a  while,  until  we  see  whether  you  are  big  enough  for  it. 
I  think  you  could  do  it.  At  least  we'll  try,  at  three 
thousand  a  year — Acting  Business  Manager.  If  you  make 
good  you  get  that  job." 

And  so  Kirby  rose.  He  was  twenty-eight.  It  was 
another  case  of  a  young  American  put  into  power  without 
much  real  foundation  of  training  or  experience.  In  his 
drunken  triumph  he  carefully  forgot  the  making  and 
breaking  of  Boyd,  as  men  on  the  make  are  apt  to  do. 


XVII 

THE   WOMAN 

A^TER  two  years  of  being  dictated  to  Kirby  now  had 
the  luxurious  joy  of  dictating  to  another.  He  would 
tell  the  office-boy  to  ask  Mr.  Loughlin  to  come  in,  and  a 
pale  young  man,  just  as  tremulous  as  ever  Kirby  was, 
would  come  in  deferentially,  pull  out  the  flap  of  the  desk, 
adjust  his  note-book,  and  wait  for  the  terrible  Business 
Manager.  Then  Kirby,  rocking  back  in  his  revolving- 
chair,  pulling  on  a  cigar,  a  letter  in  his  hand  and  thought 
knitting  his  brow,  would  say: 

"  Take  this  dictation.  Jackson  Press  Company,  Nyack, 
etc." 

He  felt  now  that  he  was  a  man  of  standing  in  the  world, 
and  so  did  the  factory;  for  a  man  who  could  run  the 
business  on  the  one  hand  and  on  the  other  keep  in  the 
secret  counsels  of  J.  J.  was  a  man  to  be  deferred  to. 
The  staff  was  raw  with  jealousy,  but  could  not  even 
show  it. 

However,  there  were  two  yellow  streaks  in  Kirby's 
triumph.  One  was  the  fact  that  he  was  only  Acting 
Business  Manager;  that  he  was  on  trial,  and  that  if  he 
failed  to  make  good  he  would  be  veritably  reduced  in  rank 
in  the  eyes  of  all,  a  shame  he  could  not  tolerate.  The 
other  was  the  palpable  flimsiness  of  the  whole  institution. 
Now  that  he  had  control,  he  could  really  see  the  financial 
undertow,  a  fierce  back-wash  of  increasing  debt  that 
threatened  at  any  moment  to  drown  the  entire  business. 
He  could  not  delude  himself  longer;  at  short  notice  the 
13  i79 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

enterprise  might  cease,  in  which  case  he  would  be  out  of 
work.  And  he  was  sane  enough  to  know  that  with  his 
superficial  experience  he  would  not  be  able  to  get  a 
position  of  this  kind  elsewhere.  It  meant  sinking  back 
to  the  drudges ;  it  meant  eventual  failure. 

He  made  his  brain  sweat  over  this  problem:  how  to 
escape  upward  before  he  was  dragged  downward.  For 
some  time  there  was  no  clue.  Then  finally  he  evolved  a 
Machiavellian  scheme. 

It  so  happened  that  J.  J.  had  begun  a  new  series  of 
articles  in  the  magazine,  on  "Captains  of  Industry,"  one 
each  on  the  head  of  each  trust,  as  sugar,  beef,  tobacco, 
wool,  oil,  and  steel.  This  naturally  brought  in  Jordan 
Watts.  A  letter  was  addressed  to  him,  informing  him 
that  the  magazine  already  had  material  in  hand  for  the 
article,  but  preferred  to  get  it  from  him  direct.  The 
answer  came  from  Mary  Watts.  It  ran  briefly: 

"  My  father,  as  you  know,  is  opposed  to  giving  informa 
tion  to  the  press.  However,  it  would  be  unwise  to  pub 
lish  an  uncorrected  statement.  If  you  will  send  the 
article  to  me  I  will  pass  upon  it." 

J.  J.  replied  that  it  would  be  to  Watts'  interest  to 
furnish  the  basis  of  an  entirely  fresh  article,  one  convincing 
in  its  straightforwardness,  and  finally  Mary  answered  that 
the  matter  had  been  left  in  her  hands.  "I  handle  at 
present  all  the  publicity  work  for  my  father,"  and  if  Mr. 
Harrington  would  send  a  question-blank  she  would  see  if 
it  were  wise  to  fill  it  out. 

At  this  point  Kirby  asked  that  the  matter  be  put  in  his 
hands.  J.  J.  was  deeply  involved  in  an  airship  meet  and 
had  little  time  for  formulating  question-blanks,  hence,  in 
his  usual  way  with  Kirby,  he  consented. 

Kirby  now  pushed  his  scheme,  thereby  entering  the 
ranks  of  those  fortune-hunters  who,  like  a  black  swarm, 
buzz  around  the  hive  of  the  millionaire.  And  this  was  the 
not  unnatural  outcome  of  the  teachings  that  had  nourished 
his  youth;  the  cheap  American  get-there -you-can-succeed 

1 80 


THE    WOMAN 

philosophy;  and  the  man  who  but  a  few  years  since  had 
wept  over  a  ruined  Bess  now,  by  the  pressure  of  savage 
business,  became  himself  one  of  those  tramplers  who  make 
what  they  are  the  shop-girl  and  the  drudge.  Yet  the 
outcome  was  so  logical  that  not  once  did  he  wince.  It  was 
himself  against  the  world;  it  was  crush  or  be  crushed. 

It  was  quite  natural,  too,  that  he  should  meet  the 
Watts;  they  were  the  peak  of  the  mountain,  and  no 
matter  which  side  he  climbed  they  stood  there  before  him. 
Then  what  more  simple  than,  having  aimed  at  them  once, 
he  should  now  aim  at  them  again?  He  had  missed  the 
first  opportunity  through  inexperience  and  ignorance;  he 
was  different  now;  he  was  a  power  himself;  he  was  a 
vital  part  of  the  power  of  the  press,  a  power  that  could 
equal  at  a  pinch  the  power  of  a  millionaire.  Clothed  with 
this  authority  he  could  speak  face  to  face  with  Mary  or 
her  father,  and  they  who  had  so  charmingly  turned  him 
out-of-doors  four  years  ago  would  have  to  take  cog 
nizance  of  him  to-day. 

He  remembered  Mary  as  plain-faced  and  girlish  and 
very  lovely  in  the  way  she  had  tried  to  shield  and  comfort 
him.  At  that  time  he  had  felt  younger  than  she;  now 
he  felt  immeasurably  older.  If  he  met  her  now  his  de 
veloped  masculinity  would  overshadow  her,  and  he  knew 
the  tricks  whereby  he  could  dominate.  He  surely  knew 
now  how  he  attracted  women. 

Once  there  had  been  an  explosion  in  the  photograph- 
room,  and  Kirby,  running  out  to  the  end  of  the  hall  with 
fifty  others,  saw  the  pall  of  smoke  in  the  sky-lit  room. 
With  splendid  incaution  he  dashed  in,  crawled  on  his 
stomach,  and  dragged  the  unconscious  photographer  out. 
And  the  huddled  girls  of  the  subscription  department 
wept,  not  for  a  burned  and  overpowered  photographer,  but 
for  a  singed  Kirby  Trask.  He  knew  this,  and,  walking 
out  on  a  warm  noon,  he  could  not  help  but  be  aware  of 
these  girls,  lounging  in  the  grass  of  the  railroad  embank 
ment,  eating  their  lunch  and  gazing  after  him.  He  re- 

181 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

membered,  too,  Janice  and  Bess,  Mrs.  Waverley  and 
Myrtle,  even  Mary — though  he  tried  to  forget  Frances 
Ferguson. 

In  fact,  Kirby  was  becoming,  in  a  way,  a  Richard-the- 
Lion-Hearted — bold,  cold,  haughty,  and  yet  with  such  a 
reckless  dash  that  weaker  men  followed  him  and  women 
loved  him. 

"A  young  devil,"  said  Meggs,  and  took  a  certain 
fearful  pride  in  being  ordered  about  by  him. 

There  was  curiously  some  of  this  reckless  splendor  even 
in  this  new  plan,  this  attempt  to  rush  a  millionaire.  He  did 
not  know,  of  course,  whether  Mary  was  affianced  or  not — 
he  had  seen  no  newspaper  report  on  the  subject — yet  he 
imagined  that  she  might  be.  And  he  was  sane  enough 
not  to  expect  anything  so  extraordinary.  What  he  hoped 
for  was  that  he  might  meet  Mary,  win  her  friendship, 
through  her  insinuate  himself  into  the  life  of  old  Watts, 
show  his  power,  and  secure  some  place  in  the  machinery  of 
the  Trust.  Once  in,  he  had  no  doubt  of  himself. 

In  short,  he  hoped  to  escape  through  Mary  up  to  the 
top  before  he  was  draggged  down  again  to  the  bottom. 
The  situation  was  critical  and  needed  desperate  action; 
he  was  doing  nothing  dishonest,  no,  nothing  more  than 
thousands  of  men  were  doing  daily  in  one  way  and  an 
other — political  hangers-on,  office-seekers,  social  climbers, 
professional  men,  employees.  Yes,  it  sometimes  seemed 
as  if  the  whole  world  were  doing  it;  as  if  all  recognized  the 
truth  which  the  commercial  traveler  on  the  sleeper  had 
put  so  bluntly: 

"It  takes  pull  now,  pull.  All  the  push  in  the  world 
won't  help  a  feller." 

And  this  "pull"  could  only  be  secured  through  per 
sonal  alliances.  Acquaintanceship,  friendship,  were  the 
means  of  rising. 

So  he  wrote  to  Mary: 

"Mr.  Harrington  has  placed  the  matter  of  the  'Cap 
tains  of  Industry'  article  in  my  hands.  We  feel  that  the 

182 


THE    WOMAN 

question-blank  would  be  unsatisfactory  both  to  you  and 
to  us;  it  might  necessitate  a  lengthy  correspondence.  It 
might  be  wiser,  as  it  would  be  quicker  and  easier,  to  have 
an  interview  of  twenty  minutes.  And  if  you  will  name 
a  place  and  date  we  can  dispose  of  the  matter  at  once." 

This  was  a  chance  shot;  if  it  carried  home  he  might 
meet  her.  If  he  met  her  she  might  remember  him.  Much 
might  follow. 

He  sent  the  letter  on  a  Saturday;  the  following  Tuesday 
came  the  reply,  typewritten  on  note-paper,  and  signed 
in  Mary's  large  hand: 

"I  understand  that  Inwood  is  a  short  automobile  ride 
from  the  city.  I  will  be  out  there,  unless  I  hear  from  you, 
on  Wednesday  afternoon  at  three." 

He  could  have  leaped  up  and  shouted  with  victorious 
exultation.  Then  he  had  misgivings;  he  would  have  pre 
ferred  to  meet  her  in  the  city  where  he  could  see  her 
alone.  J.  J.  might  be  on  the  scene  to  absorb  the  young 
woman  as  he  absorbed  everything;  or  the  staff  might 
intervene.  He  decided  then  to  tell  no  one  about  the 
interview,  and  to  leave  orders  that  if  on  Wednesday  after 
noon  any  one  asked  for  Mr.  Trask  he  (or  she)  was  to  be 
sent  up  to  the  house.  The  plan  was  not  without  its  merit, 
for  J.  J.'s  library  on  the  ground  floor  needed  overhauling, 
a  job  that  had  been  deferred  from  time  to  time.  He  could 
go  there  and  watch  from  the  window  and  intercept  her 
before  she  reached  any  one  else. 

So  on  Wednesday  morning  this  cheerful,  premeditating 
young  man  shaved  and  ,  dressed  with  fastidious  care, 
gave  his  hair  the  highest  excellence  of  waviness,  and  went 
to  work  feeling  like  a  powerful,  smooth-running  dynamo. 
Lunch  came,  one  o'clock,  two.  He  went  up  to  the  library. 

"Where's  J.  J.?"  he  asked  the  butler. 

"Gone  to  the  city." 

Fortune  smiled  upon  him.  Wonderful,  indeed,  he  re 
flected,  what  made  for  success  in  this  world.  There  was 
Brent,  for  instance,  the  manuscript  clerk,  just  as  fearless, 

183 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

just  as  big-brained,  just  as  hard  a  worker  as  Kirby.  Yet 
Brent  stayed  low,  couldn't  rise,  couldn't  work  out  of  the 
rut.  Was  it  that  he  lacked  recklessness?  Recklessness 
ruined  as  often  as  made  a  man,  and  all  the  recklessness  in 
the  world  was  impotent  against  locked  doors.  It  must 
be  then  a  matter  of  luck.  Kirby  was  lucky — lucky  that 
he  went  to  Atwood's,  lucky  that  the  J.  J.  opening  was 
there,  lucky  that  J.  J.  liked  him,  and  now  supremely 
lucky  that  Mary  Watts  was  adventurous  enough  (or  was 
it  curious  enough?)  to  come  out  to  Inwood  on  a  chance 
letter. 

The  library  was  a  long,  dusky  room,  with  high  ceiling, 
with  old-fashioned  sooty  white-marble  fireplace,  and  with 
many-folding  brown  shutters  on  the  storm-stained  Gothic 
windows.  Unprotected  books  cluttered  wooden  shelves  to 
the  ceiling;  the  furniture  was  old,  and  the  corners  care 
lessly  filled  with  dusty  heaps  of  manuscripts,  with  stacks 
of  old  file-boxes,  with  creaking  revolving-cabinets.  The 
room  had  no  library  atmosphere,  no  inviting  radiance  of 
warmth  and  comfort  for  the  browsing  reader.  It  was  more 
like  a  cold,  forbidding  store-room,  shadowy  and  tinged 
with  purple  gloom. 

Yet  to-day  an  atmosphere  of  romance  and  secret  ad 
venture  pervaded  it,  like  some  dark  stone  tower-room  of 
the  Middle  Ages  where  a  man  and  woman  whispered  to 
gether  in  the  twilight  to  keep  their  voices  from  echoing 
through  the  perilous  halls.  Charmed  and  expectant, 
Kirby  fingered  gingerly  the  dusty  file-boxes,  and  ever  and 
again  went  to  the  windows  and  glanced  out.  He  had  half 
a  fear  that  she  would  not  come. 

The  day  was  gray,  silent,  as  if  snow  were  in  the  air,  and 
an  intimate  melancholy  lay  like  an  enfolding  spirit  on  the 
bare  slopes,  the  gravel  path,  the  model  factory  with  its 
plume  of  steamy  smoke,  and  the  bare  woods  beyond.  A 
precipitation  of  sadness  and  loving  gloom  lived  down 
wardly  on  all  things,  the  gray-bosomed,  gray-haired 
ancient  sky  laying  her  desolate  breast  on  the  wintry 

184 


THE    WOMAN 

earth.     And    traced   against    the   gray    were    the   bare 
branches  of  the  frozen  trees. 

Kirby's  spirit  was  touched  by  this  melancholy,  and  some 
of  his  excitement  died  in  it  like  a  hot  flash  in  its  own  gray 
smoke.  For  a  moment  he  wondered  at  his  own  hardness 
and  self -absorption,  for  the  day  touched  him  like  a  woman, 
and  the  hidden  beauty  of  his  spirit  quivered  at  the  touch. 

He  went  back  to  the  file-boxes,  and  then  back  and  forth. 
The  light  seemed  to  be  waning  in  the  growing  gloom. 

"She  may  not  come  at  all  in  this  weather,"  he  reflected. 

Then,  in  the  silence,  he  heard  the  far  chug-chug  of  an 
automobile,  and  glancing  out  saw  a  big  brown  French  car 
stopping  before  the  portico  of  the  factory.  A  chauffeur 
got  out  and  went  lightly  up  the  steps.  Kirby  grew  hot 
about  the  temples,  an  unexpected  feeling  of  timidity 
palsied  him,  and  vivid  memories  of  four  years  ago  came 
back.  Then  he  had  nerved  himself,  and  at  the  crucial 
moment  lost  his  nerve.  After  all,  he  was  the  same  human 
being.  He  wished  almost  angrily  that  the  day  had  been 
of  a  different  temper — sharp  wind  and  sunshine,  storm, 
anything  that  could  keep  a  man  hardy.  This  weather  was 
dissolving. 

Then,  as  he  expected,  the  chauffeur  came  down  and  re- 
entered  the  car,  which  started  with  a  snort.  He  felt  as 
if  his  doom  were  coming  toward  him;  as  if  unescapable 
Nemesis  were  overwhelming  him;  his  blood  rushed  to  his 
head  and  he  trembled.  Now  the  car  was  lost  under  the 
slope  of  the  hill,  now  it  took  the  long  curve  of  the  carriage 
road,  now  it  was  hidden  beyond  the  house,  and  now, 
abruptly,  it  swept  up  to  the  porch  and  stopped.  He  got  a 
glimpse  of  a  muffled  woman  in  the  rear  seat,  veil  over 
head,  and  heavy  automobile  coat. 

But  he  bolted  for  the  door,  to  intercept  the  butler,  and 
flung  it  open.  The  chauffeur  came  up,  a  powerful,  clean- 
faced  man,  in  leather  boots,  great  fur-lined  gloves,  and 
heavy  coat. 

"Mr.  Traskin?" 

185 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"Yes.     Miss  Watts?    Show  her  in." 

His  voice  came  in  unfamiliar  accents. 

The  chauffeur  went  back,  and  in  the  eternity  that  fol 
lowed  Kirby  knew  himself  for  a  bold  fool.  He  was  glad 
that  he  had  not  the  gray  eyes  of  a  Mrs.  Waverley  upon 
him. 

Now  the  woman  descended  from  the  car  and  came  with 
firm  tread  up  the  steps.  He  had  the  fleeting  impression 
that  it  was  not  Mary  Watts  at  all,  but  some  entire  stranger. 
She  stood  before  him,  and  her  voice  had  a  sound,  healthy 
ring: 

"Mr.  Trask?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  a  little  huskily.  "Miss  Watts?  Step 
into  the  library,  please." 

He  closed  the  door  and  followed  her.  With  a  graceful 
motion  she  was  unpinning  and  taking  off  the  veil,  and  he 
helped  her  off  with  the  coat.  Then  she  glanced  round  and 
sat  down.  There  was  a  freedom  and  health  in  her  mo 
tions  that  was  sharply,  pleasantly  perceptible. 

And  then,  as  Kirby  saw  the  face  and  the  simple  black 
dress — for  she  was  in  mourning  for  her  sister's  death — 
he  experienced  an  unhinging  shock.  He  had  made  no 
allowance  for  the  four  years  that  had  changed  him  from  a 
disorganized  youth  to  a  powerful  man;  but  these  same 
years  had  changed  Mary.  The  pleasant,  impulsive  girl- 
ishness  had  fled;  she  had  matured,  she  was  rounded,  and 
her  face,  which  he  had  thought  now  plain,  now  blushingly 
radiant,  was  superb;  soft,  simply  waved  dark  hair  over  a 
powerful  forehead;  large  brown,  honest  eyes;  a  strong  jaw. 
And  yet  she  appeared  very  young,  as  if  she  knew  men,  knew 
manners,  knew  the  ways  of  the  world,  but  seemed,  with 
large  eyes,  trying  to  wonderingly  peer  into  the  mysteries  of 
life.  It  was  as  if  she  knew  nothing  of  her  own  unfolded 
nature,  the  generations  that  were  sealed  up  in  her,  the 
woman-mate  that  lay  within  her,  tranced,  waiting  the  kiss 
that  should  waken  not  only  her,  but  the  whole  palace  of 
the  woman.  She  had  the  face  and  bearing  of  a  woman 

186 


THE    WOMAN 

who  thought,  who  felt,  honest  before  all  things — emotion 
ally,  intellectually  honest.  There  was  no  lie  in  Mary 
Watts.  And  yet  through  all  ran  the  cloudy  wistfulness  of 
an  unmated  woman. 

Kirby's  abrupt  silence,  painful  with  this  flood  of  revela 
tion,  caused  her  to  look  up  and  examine  him.  She  bent 
forward  a  little. 

"I  must  have  met  you — somewhere." 

It  was  half  a  statement,  half  a  question.     He  turned  red. 

"You  did,"  he  faltered.  "Four  years  ago.  I  came  to 
your  house  for  supper." 

She  seemed  to  be  reading  his  soul  with  those  honest  eyes. 

"Four  years  ago.     And  what  was  the  occasion?" 

"I  had  just  come  to  the  city — Mrs.  Janice  Hadden  had 
given  me  a  letter  to  your  father." 

"I  remember."  Her  soft  laughter  was  clear.  "And 
father  was  rude  to  you,  until  you  exploded  on  him.  I've 
never  forgotten  that;  it  was  unusual."  He  began  to 
breathe  easier  and  feel  elated.  She  went  on,  earnestly: 
"  I  really  meant  to  ask  you  up  again,  to  make  up  for  that 
night,  and  I  know  it's  no  excuse  that  I've  been  simply 
swept  along  all  this  time." 

He  could  say  nothing.     He  smiled,  and  sat  down. 

"And  now  you're  here,  interviewing  people." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  he  could  not  help  adding,  "I'm 
Acting  Business  Manager." 

"In  four  years.  Splendid!"  she  said,  enthusiastically. 
Then  she  looked  at  him  and  spoke  in  a  probing  way: 
"But  does  the  Business  Manager  get  up  articles?" 

He  squirmed  inwardly.  Her  honesty  was  getting  un 
pleasant. 

"No,"  he  murmured,  trying  to  smile,  "but  I'm  still 
doing  some  of  Mr.  Harrington's  secretarial  work." 

"I  see." 

Speech  evidently  was  at  an  end.  In  the  waning  light 
he  saw  her  face  glistening  out  of  the  black  shadows. 
Beauty  and  life  were  there,  shining  in  the  engulfing 

187 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

dark,  the  beam  of  a  lightship  on  stormy  seas.  Something 
profoundly  devout  was  stirred  in  him,  and  he  felt  in  the 
clutch  of  a  huge,  exquisite  power. 

Then,  to  snap  the  silence,  she  began  a  rapid  questioning 
that  reminded  him  strangely  of  her  father. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Two  years." 

"And  you  started  as  secretary?" 

"Yes." 

"And  before  then?" 

He  could  hardly  speak  for  shame. 

"I  worked  with  the  Continental  Express  Company." 

"As  a  stenographer?" 

She  would  have  the  truth,  and  out  it  came: 

"As  a  clerk."  The  words  seemed  to  burn  his  lips. 
"Now,"  he  thought,  "she'll  despise  me." 

"Clerk  to  Business  Manager  in  four  years,"  she  said, 
meditatively.  "That  shows  power." 

And  there  was  a  hint  in  her  voice  that  possibly  she 
thought  of  Kirby  as  a  man  inherently  great,  and,  like 
Janice  Hadden,  she  would  have  enjoyed  projecting  him. 
It  showed,  too,  though  Kirby  could  not  glimpse  this,  that 
she  was  looking  for  real  values;  that  she  put  crude  strength 
before  the  weak-spined  polish  of  some  of  the  men  of  her 
set.  The  daughter  of  a  messenger-boy  had  not  grown 
very  far  from  the  common  soil. 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  Kirby  scourged  himself 
because  he  was  proving  so  unexpectedly  the  same  old 
two-and-sixpence.  He  left  all  the  responsibility  of  com 
munication  with  her. 

She  spoke  in  a  changed  voice: 

"Well,  we  may  as  well  get  the  business  over  with,  Mr. 
Trask.  What  can  I  tdl  you?" 

This  was  tonic;  the  man  of  action  was  saved  from 
drowning. 

"Just  this,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "We  want  the  plain 
facts  of  Mr.  Watts'  life." 

188 


THE    WOMAN 

"  But  you  have  those  already." 

"We  may  have  them  wrong." 

"All  right,"  she  said. 

He  got  a  note-book  and  took  it  in  shorthand.  He  had 
hesitated  about  doing  this,  for  it  would  put  him  in  an 
inferior  position ;  when  he  did  it  finally  it  was  on  impulse. 
But  Mary  admired  this  lack  of  ceremony,  this  businesslike 
simplicity.  He  sat  near  the  window,  and  now  a  change 
of  clouds  sent  on  him  a  pale,  whitish  light  that  brought  out 
all  the  bull-headed  strength  of  his  head. 

She  dictated  limpidly,  slowly,  out  of  a  clear  mind.  And 
she  showed  far  less  false  pride  than  Kirby  had.  He  did 
not  want  to  admit  clerking;  she  seemed  to  delight  in 
picturing  her  father  as  a  poor  boy  of  humble  origin,  as  a 
messenger,  a  telegraph  operator,  a  secretary,  a  superin 
tendent,  a  manufacturer.  And  before  she  finished  Kirby 
felt  definitely  how  slight  the  real  wall  is  between  the 
different  classes  in  American  civilization,  the  real  wall, 
for  the  wall  of  manners  and  power  and  position  and 
comfort  was  tragic  enough,  as  he  knew. 

There  was  one  part  of  the  narrative  that  she  slurred  over, 
however.  It  had  to  do  with  her  father's  business  methods. 
He  asked  a  probing  question  or  two,  but  finally  she  said, 
in  a  quivering  voice: 

"  No,  publicity  hasn't  any  right  there.  People  wouldn't 
understand,  as  I  do.  Besides,  we're  giving  away  millions 
of  dollars  to  set  some  things  right." 

This  moral  viewpoint  was  new  to  him. 

"She's  too  honest,"  he  thought.  "I'd  hate  to  have  her 
investigating  me." 

A  blank  silence  again  followed  the  ending  of  the  inter 
view.  He  felt  that  she  was  watching  him,  and,  looking 
up,  he  saw  her  face  with  its  cloudy  wistfulness. 

She  smiled  at  him  very  sweetly,  he  thought. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  an  automobile  at  close  range?" 
she  asked. 

"No,"  he  replied. 

189 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Automobiles  were  still  enough  of  a  novelty  at  that  time 
to  warrant  inspection.  He  helped  her  into  her  coat,  she 
put  the  veil  over  her  head,  and  they  went  out.  The 
chauffeur  began  cranking  up  the  machine,  but  she  showed 
Kirby  the  parts.  Finally  she  said: 

"Get  in;   I'll  run  it  for  you." 

The  chauffeur  looked  up  sharply. 

"You  hadn't  better,  Miss  Watts.  You've  not  really 
learnt  yet." 

She  laughed.  "Oh  yes,  I'm  going  to  do  it,"  and  leaped 
in  and  took  the  driving-seat.  "Come  on,  Mr.  Trask." 

He  got  in  beside  her,  the  chauffeur  grimly  jumped  out  of 
the  way,  and  at  a  twist  of  her  wrist  the  car  leaped  from 
under  them  and  glided  easily  along  the  curve  of  the  drive. 
The  action  seemed  to  reveal  all  her  power  to  Kirby;  it 
appeared  to  him  that  it  was  a  powerful  human  being  who 
so  lightly  and  easily  sped  the  huge  car  along.  And  her 
presence  was  beginning  to  fill  him  with  a  painful  glory — 
his  growing  emotions  threatening  to  overmaster  him. 

"It's  glorious,  isn't  it?"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  made  a 
swift  circle  and  the  car  flew  back  to  the  house  again. 
"Some  day  I'm  going  out  all  alone  and  let  out  the  speed 
and  simply  jump  the  hills.  It's  a  sort  of  freedom." 

The  car  stopped  and  they  stepped  down.  Darkness 
was  now  devouring  the  world,  and  here  and  there  a  pro 
testing  light  appeared  in  house  and  factory  window. 
She  stood  very  close  to  him,  and  as  she  said  good-by  she 
took  his  hand  and  seemed  to  study  him  at  close  range. 
He  felt  faint  and  dizzily  happy.  Suddenly  her  personality 
seemed  to  invade  his,  so  that  he  was  lost  in  the  tides  of  her 
spirit.  It  was  as  if  the  trembling  mystery  of  existence 
was  laid  bare  for  a  brief  flash,  as  if  the  hurried  and  muffled 
destiny  of  humanity  revealed  its  primal  light  and  the  far 
glory  that  it  yearned  toward.  There  was  something  un 
dying  in  the  moment;  out  of  the  dark  a  man  and  a  woman 
emerging,  touching  hands,  glancing  in  each  other's  eyes. 
And  all  the  realities  made  it  more  poignant  and  touched 

190 


THE    WOMAN 

with  wonder — the  darkening  heavens,  the  clash  of  the 
chauffeur's  boots  on  the  pebbles,  the  breathing  of  the 
machine,  the  lights  in  the  growing  night. 

She,  too,  felt  the  presence  of  that  remote  and  far 
Romance  that  leaned  for  a  brief  moment  and  lit  their  faces 
and  passed. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  wistfully.  "You're  to  get  that 
delayed  invitation  now,  depend  upon  me.  It  will  come 
soon.  In  the  mean  time,  if  you  must  see  me  any  more 
about  the  article,  come  to  the  city."  Her  voice  seemed 
like  a  cloud  passing  through  the  cloud  of  his  own  spirit. 

"Good-by,"  he  murmured,  breathless. 

She  stepped  in,  the  chauffeur  climbed  to  his  seat,  she 
smiled  dimly,  and  then  the  night  took  her. 

He  stood,  as  if  his  soul  had  been  stripped  naked,  a 
quivering  human  being  in  the  dark.  The  great  primal 
force  of  life,  the  limitless  systole  and  diastole  of  that 
power  that  makes  the  suns  and  planets  ebb  and  flow  and 
penetrates  the  atoms  and  the  mated  animals,  the  pulsing 
of  that  swing  of  all  the  world  which  Kirby  had  thus  far 
felt  in  dim  throbs,  but  always  rid  himself  of,  so  that  he  at 
last  thought  he  was  free  of  it  and  could  go  his  hard  way 
untroubled,  now  clutched  him,  drenched  him,  possessed 
him,  and  his  little  vain  works  crumbled  in  that  Tremen- 
dousness.  He  marveled  that  he  had  thought  of  fortune- 
hunting.  He  marveled  that  his  little  brain  had  busily 
schemed.  It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  had  shattered  his 
career. 

"  That's  what  a  woman  is,"  he  told  himself  with  blinding 
amazement.  ' '  And  I  — yes,  I 'm  a  man.  She's  a  woman. ' ' 

And  he  felt  as  if  he  were  the  most  unfortunate  fellow  in 
the  world.  He  had  planned  without  reckoning  on  Nature. 
He  had  thought  himself  a  free  master;  he  was  merely  an 
atom  in  the  fury  of  the  suns. 


AV1U 
THE  RIDS 

HAD  Kirby  been  told  that  his  honored  father  had 
secretly  fived  a  fife  of  dissoluteness  and  murder  the 
erode  shock  would  have  dazed  him  less  than  the  dis 
covery  that  he  was  merely  that  little  white  animal — matt — 
nailed  to  the  flying  debris  of  the  stars.  Stunned,  he  saw 
fife  afresh.  It  was  not  happiness,  there  was  no  rapture 
in  the  thoughts  th?*  Mary  evoked,  there  was  merely 
realization.  Her  personality  spf-med  to  have  saturated 
his,  and  the  obsession  was  almost  painful. 

It  was  exactly  as  if  his  work,  his  schemes,  his  plots  were 
a  lot  of  Kttle  strings  he  had  been  tying  together,  each 
string  leading  to  some  new  power  out  of  sight,  until  fiasdljr, 
impatient,  he  had  dropped  a  spark  on  them,  to  find,  to  his 
honor,  that  they  were  fuses  that  burned  rapidly  down  to 
«  mmf  that  CTpV*dkd  a^  In*.  Kf«»  He  f elt  that  somehow  he 
t^fi  fumed  liiiitMMi  *  tpmt  by  "^^MH^HM*  twj  whole  * ** * v^*t)QTi 
from  business  success  to  the  following  of  a  woman  he  had 
became  a  helpless  slave. 

Natures  such  as  Kirby's,  when  once  aroused,  are  hard  to 
quiet.  He  did  his  best  to  putt  out  from  his  heart  tins 
woman's  power.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  adding  him 
self  to  a  whole  swarm  of  suitors;  that  Mary  was  too  keen 
not  to  see  through  hik  fl"d*t'ioii?  a*id  pretensions;  *h^*t 
even  if  she  favored  him  she  was  fike  a  king's  daughter, 
bound  to  a  high  nuMiiagp*  ttert  he  hfU^  nothing  to  offer 
such  a  woman  but  Ms  tmpl^a^fftit  self;  thpt  he  ^»a<l  ttffn 
an  unfortunate  fool  in  trying  to  use  a  woman  as  a  handle 


THE    RIDE 

to  success;    and  yet,  despite  this  feverish  reasoning,  he 
could  only  go  about  as  if  he  were  drugged. 

He  lost  the  zest  of  his  work;  he  felt  in  the  morning  a 
distaste  for  the  heaps  of  letters  and  reports;  the  buzz  of 
J.  J.  and  his  employees  was  a  petty  noise  of  gnats  in  his 
ear,  and  as  a  result  his  work  suffered.  The  staff  were 
quick  to  see  this,  quick  to  tell  J.  J.,  and  J.  J.  found  it  was  true. 

"You're  falling  down,  Mr.  Trask,"  he  said  in  all  kindli 
ness,  "just  at  the  moment  when  I  am  expecting  you  to 
make  good." 

Kirby  murmured  some  excuse,  and  decided  to  try 
harder.  It  was  useless;  he  showed  moodiness,  pettish- 
ness,  absence  of  mind.  Sometimes  he  lost  his  temper  and 
railed  and  stormed  in  the  manner  of  J.  J.  Besides,  he 
lost  sleep  at  night,  and  came  to  his  work  fatigued,  at  war 
with  himself  and  all  others.  It  was  a  most  unfortunate 
time  to  develop  such  qualities.  He  was  on  the  very 
brink  of  promotion,  and  a  few  weeks  of  intense  drive  and 
hard,  brittle  action  would  have  carried  him  over. 

"  Pretty  soon,"  he  told  himself,  "  I'll  lose  the  job,  and  go 
to  thunder  in  New  York." 

vSuch  cases  were  not  uncommon;  hardly  a  week  passed 
without  some  newspaper  report  of  a  successful  man  com 
mitting  suicide,  or  disappearing,  or  disgracing  himself. 
Many  of  them  doubtless  had  vanquished  all  things  save 
sex ;  when  they  met  that  primal  force  they  dissolved  like 
summer  clouds. 

Mary  had  opened  the  way  for  visits  at  the  Fifth  Avenue 
house,  and  he  soon  found  reasons  enough  for  consulting 
her  further  about  the  article.  So  he  ran  in  to  town  and 
saw  her.  He  found  no  opportunity  for  intimacy,  however. 
She  was  extremely  busy,  and  in  the  atmosphere  of  her  own 
home  seemed  distant  and  strange  to  him.  It  was  as  if 
she  were  a  different  woman — almost  a  business  woman. 
So  these  trips  made  him  more  feverish  than  ever;  he  told 
himself  each  time  he  would  never  go  again,  but  again  he 
went,  drawn  irresistibly. 

i93 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

However,  on  the  third  visit,  he  found  her  deeply  ab 
stracted  and  troubled  by  a  problem  in  philanthropy. 
Should  she  turn  over  half  a  million  dollars  for  medical 
research?  There  was  so  much  waste  in  this  work,  the 
processes  so  slow,  while  the  immediate  needs  of  the  poor 
cried  out  for  relief.  Kirby  urged  medical  research. 

"Better  get  at  the  roots  of  our  troubles  and  prevent, 
than  try  merely  to  ameliorate." 

And  he  spoke  with  such  sure  logic  that,  as  he  no 
ticed,  her  interest  in  him  reached  a  new  pitch,  as 
if  she  found  not  only  crude  force  in  him,  but  executive 
power,  high  mentality,  larger  vision.  She  grew  unusually 
animated  and  detained  him  for  two  hours.  Naturally, 
he  had  to  come  twice  more,  and  each  time  he  felt  that  she 
leaned  more  trustingly  upon  his  power.  Yet  it  was  too 
much  like  one  business  partner  depending  on  another,  too 
impersonal;  not  once  did  she  speak  of  herself  or  of  him, 
not  once  question  him  as  she  had  done  that  first  day,  and 
so  he  went  home  each  time  in  a  fresh  turmoil,  a  man 
drugged.  However,  as  he  left  the  last  time,  just  at  parting, 
she  spoke  in  a  new  way : 

"You  know  that  invitation       It's  coming  soon." 

It  fired  him  with  strange  hopes,  but  it  was  ruinous  to 
his  work,  and  it  now  seemed  clear  to  him  that  he  was 
making  his  future  with  J.  J.  impossible.  His  first  desire 
each  morning  was  to  sort  out  his  mail;  he  would  run 
through  the  stack  looking  for  Mary's  handwriting;  that 
lacking,  his  chief  interest  died.  In  this  way  a  feverish 
week  went  by. 

Then  on  a  Thursday  morning,  sitting  down  at  his  desk, 
he  had  the  feeling  of  receiving  a  reprieve  just  as  the  noose 
fastened  round  his  neck.  He  saw  a  little  envelope.  The 
letter  ran: 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TRASK, — This  time  I  am  keeping  my  word. 
But  if  you  come  you  will  have  to  make  a  week-end  of  it,  for  I 
am  taking  a  fortnight  at  our  High  Hill  place,  Pactic,  New  York. 

194 


THE    RIDE 

You  could  come  Saturday,  of  course.  The  train  leaves  at  g  A.M., 
Grand  Central  Station,  and  reaches  here  at  11.45.  But.  that 
would  lose  you  in  a  crowd.  Why  don't  you  come  Friday  morn 
ing?  In  that  way  we  could  have  a  real  visit. 

Sincerely,         MARY  WATTS. 

He  was  not  elated.  It  was  more  like  flame  consuming 
him.  But  it  was  a  complete  relief  to  get  into  action  again, 
to  cut  the  leash  and  scurry  away.  And  he  reflected  that 
Mary  was  more  than  good  to  him;  she  was  heavenly  to 
offer  a  day  of  herself  alone. 

He  went  straight  to  J.  J.  and  asked  for  two  days  off. 

J.  J.  was  very  fond  of  Kirby. 

"Yes,  go  by  all  means,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  the  rest  and 
change  are  what  you  need.  You've  been  driving  too 
hard."  But  to  himself  he  added:  "He's  involved  with 
a  woman  at  last.  That  explains  it." 

So  the  next  morning  he  rose  at  six,  and,  suit-case  in 
hand,  caught  the  seven-thirty,  easily  making  the  nine- 
o'clock  train  in  New  York.  At  eleven-forty-five  the  swift 
express  stopped  at  Pactic,  and  he  got  off.  Beyond  the 
pretty  wood-and-stone  station  stretched  a  little  tree- 
shaded  country  village  with  a  square  of  stores  and  a 
soldiers'  monument.  Kirby  stood,  hesitating.  Then  the 
big  chauffeur  approached  him: 

"This  way,  Mr.  Trask." 

He  was  relieved  of  the  suit-case  and  ushered  into  the 
brown  automobile.  Swiftly  the  car  crossed  the  tracks, 
swept  through  a  street  of  cottages,  and  then  through  a 
back  country  of  hilly  farms.  Kirby  was  struck  by  the 
resemblance  of  this  day  to  the  day  when  Mary  had  first 
come  to  him.  A  snow  which  had  fallen  recently  had  now 
nearly  vanished,  leaving  mere  fragments  and  patches  along 
the  roadside  and  on  the  brown  and  barren  fields;  the 
skies  were  cloudy,  the  air  soft  and  expectant,  and  the 
wintry  landscape  passed  like  a  sad  and  brooding  vagrant 
that  was  lying  face  down  on  the  aching  Earth. 

14  195 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Ineffable  melancholy  came  to  Kirby's  heart,  a  soft 
vapor  of  tears,  of  longing,  of  child-like  emotion.  Past 
bleak  and  empty  woods  they  sped,  past  gray  barns  and 
lonely  farm-houses,  past  bare  orchards  with  the  gnarled 
trees  standing  in  rows  like  tattered  Bread-Lines,  past 
streams  that  went  thinly  and  with  bitter  complaining 
among  the  cold  stones.  Finally,  over  the  pastoral  slopes, 
Kirby  saw,  above  engirdling  woods,  a  far  house  on  a  hill 
top. 

"High  Hill,"  muttered  the  chauffeur. 

They  lost  it  at  once  under  the  breasts  of  heaving  pas 
tures  where  the  cattle  were  out  in  the  soft  weather  trying  to 
pull  nourishment  from  the  soaked  and  matted  ground. 
Again  Kirby  was  aware  of  the  strong  Earth-passion,  his 
true  and  primal  mother  reabsorbing  him.  A  touch  of 
sad  wildness  was  in  his  heart,  of  going  back  to  the  perilous 
open  skies  and  the  vast  untracked  Earth. 

A  mile  brought  the  car  to  the  high  stone  wall,  the  great 
gate,  the  keeper's  stone  lodge.  It  passed  through  that 
gateway  and  was  lost  at  once  in  primitive  wilderness. 
The  ancient  woods  seemed  untouched,  full  of  rotten  logs, 
fallen  branches,  and  the  debris  of  centuries;  the  gloomy 
depths  suggested  powerful  beasts  roaming  for  prey.  This 
forest,  in  turn,  gave  way  to  pastures  and  huge  stables,  and 
these  again  to  smooth-shaven  golf-links  stretching  endlessly 
to  the  right.  More  woods  then,  and  a  little  natural  lake, 
with  boat-house  and  trimmed  banks,  and  finally  a  cleared 
woods  full  of  paths  and  rustic  benches,  and  at  last,  up  the 
slopes,  graceful  lawns  with  the  house  in  the  center.  He 
had  half  expected  a  transplanted  European  castle,  moated, 
turreted,  barred,  a  forbidding  and  cold  barracks.  In 
stead,  the  great  gray-stone  house  spread  comfortably, 
with  sun-parlors  and  porches  and  large  windows,  hos 
pitable,  inviting,  warm. 

But  the  whole  estate  spoke  of  boundless  wealth  and 
power;  every  inch  of  it  humiliated  Kirby,  who  had  only  a 
suit-case,  his  little  body,  and  his  feverish  mind.  It  was 

196 


THE    RIDE 

monstrous  that  he  should  go  so  naked  on  earth,  while  these 
people  clothed  themselves  in  cities  and  wildernesses, 
houses  and  stables.  A  gust  of  his  old  diffidence  threatened 
him. 

He  got  out  stiffly,  and  the  chauffeur  rang  for  him.  A 
man-servant  relieved  him  of  hat  and  coat,  and,  dimly 
aware  of  a  big  hearth  fire  in  the  large  hall,  he  was  led  up 
carpeted  stairs  to  a  corner  room.  Then  he  found  himself 
alone. 

The  room  was  comfortable,  almost  cozy.  The  radiator 
filled  it  with  warmth,  the  large  windows  looked  out  on 
stretches'of  far  pastoral  country,  the  ceiling  was  wainscoted, 
the  furniture  heavy  and  easy.  On  the  bed  lay  a  bath 
robe;  under  it,  slippers;  a  writing-desk  held  note-paper, 
envelopes, pen,  and  ink;  a  table  was  stacked  with  an  assort 
ment  of  books  picked  for  various  tastes,  as  Shakespeare, 
Byron,  William  Vaughn  Moody,  Aristotle,  Dante,  Darwin, 
Robert  Chambers,  Dumas,  Nicolay  and  Hay,  Anthony 
Hope,  Mark  Twain;  a  cabinet  held  whisky  and  cordials 
and  cigars;  and  adjoining  the  room  was  a  bath-room. 
Thoughtf ulness  could  go  no  further;  neither  could  luxury. 

There  was  the  painful  contrast  between  this  and  his 
little  room  at  the  Allisons;  there  was  the  feeling  that  he 
was  allowed  to  taste  the  sweets  of  the  world,  only  to  be 
hurled  back  to  poverty;  there  was  the  sense  of  intruding, 
of  not  belonging.  And  thinking  of  a  Mary  to  whom  these 
things  were  commonplace  and  expected,  it  seemed  ter 
rible  that  she  should  have  such  power.  It  all  made  her 
that  much  more  remote  and  uncompanionable. 

When  he  came  down  to  the  great  hall  again,  down  the 
winding  stairs,  he  heard  curtains  rustle,  and  out  into  the 
firelight  Mary  stepped  with  her  firm,  easy  stride.  All  this 
week  he  had,  curiously  enough,  been  conjuring  up  a  ter 
rific  regal  empress;  now  he  was  amazed  by  her  simple 
appearance,  her  directness.  She  was  not  even  the  business 
woman  any  more;  she  was  personal,  intimate,  feminine. 
She  seemed  to  have  on  the  same  black  dress  she  had  worn 

197 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

that  day  at  Inwood,  and  again  he  saw  the  soft,  wavy  brown 
hair,  the  large,  honest  brown  eyes,  the  powerful  forehead. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  spoke  sincerely,  warmly: 

"I'm  glad  you  came."  Then  she  went  straight  to 
business.  "We  must  get  lunch  over  with  right  away." 
She  laughed  with  enthusiasm.  "I've  learned  to  run  the 
car  since  I  saw  you,  and  we  must  get  out  early  and  jump 
those  hills.  You  won't  mind  if  I  wreck  you?" 

Her  power,  her  command  was  indisputable,  yet  he  felt 
care  and  diffidence  dropping  from  him.  He_felt  even  a 
little  happy;  it  was  comforting  to  be  with  her. 

They  entered  a  soft-lit  dining-room,  and  sat  facing  each 
other,  alone  at  table.  And  currents  of  confidence  went 
warming  through  him.  What  could  be  more  natural  than 
lunching  with  this  honest-eyed  woman? 

"Well,"  she  said,  "how  is  the  article  coming  on?" 

That  put  him  on  solid  ground. 

"Well,  I  put  all  the  stuff  together,  with  the  corrections 
you  made,  and  then  turned  it  over  to  Mansfield,  our 
special-article  man.  He'll  send  you  a  copy  for  final  cor 
rection  before  we  set  it  up." 

Again  the  probing  glance  that  seemed  to  cut  through  to 
his  secret  soul. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  write  it.    Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  that  honesty !"  he  thought,  and  inwardly  squirmed. 
"I?"  He  tried  to  laugh.  "I  can't  write  a  word." 

She  looked  at  him  squarely.  He  thought  she  was  going 
to  ask, "Then  why  didn't  I  see  Mansfield  instead  of  you?" 
and  sickly  apprehension  seized  him.  But  she  was  silent, 
a  little  puzzled.  Then  mercifully  she  changed  the  subject. 

"Do  you  like  your  work  at  Harrington's?" 

"Oh  yes,"  he  laughed. 

"Then  you  don't  really." 

"  Well,"  he  muttered,  "  it's  splendid  in  a  way." 

"  And  in  another  way?" 

The  truth  was  pulled  from  him. 

"  You  see,  it  hasn't  much  future." 

198 


THE    RIDE 

"  On  account  of  the  sons?" 

"  The  whole  business." 

"  I  see.  And  clerking — that  must  have  been  a  bore  to 
you." 

He  tried  to  resist  this  searching  probe;  it  was  hard  be 
cause  she  was  so  vitally  interested  and  so  warmly  sincere. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  he  laughed. 

She  laughed,  too. 

"It  would  be  like  putting  a  pirate  in  a  china-closet." 

Pleasure  filled  him;  she  could  spot  his  strength  as  well 
as  his  weakness.  Yes,  she  could  read  him  right  through. 

And  soon  he  found  himself  telling  her  of  the  boarding- 
house  and  Mrs.  Waverley,  of  the  express  company  and  the 
Fergusons,  and  even  of  Trent.  Her  face  had  all  the 
cloudy  wistfulness  he  had  noticed  before. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  real  job,"  she  said,  "and  earned  my  own 
living.  I  envy  you.  I  go  around  seeing  things  instead 
of  doing  them." 

This  note  of  discontent  was  surprising;  it  put  her,  in  a 
way,  on  his  level.  And  he  felt  that  she  had  boundless 
admiration  for  any  one  who  struggled  and  really  achieved. 
As  if  her  heart  hankered  for  the  coarseness  and  dirt  and 
red  pains  of  broadcast  life;  the  things  her  father  and 
mother  had  known;  the  ancient  bondage  of  the  race. 

Then  immediately  after  lunch  they  wrapped  up  and 
went  out  to  the  car.  The  chauffeur  was  waiting;  all  was 
ready. 

"It's  not  good  weather  for  an  open  car,"  said  Mary, 
"but  I  can't  stand  being  cooped  in  outdoors." 

"It  looks  like  snow,  Miss  Watts,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

"So  much  the  better!" 

"But  you  hadn't  better  go  far.  It  might  be  hard  to 
come  back." 

"We'll  make  an  adventure  of  it,  Mr.  Trask,"  she 
laughed.  ' '  Come  on. ' ' 

He  took  the  seat  beside  her,  and  the  car  with  light  grace 
bore  them  fleetingly  down  the  macadam  road,  past  links 

199 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

and  stables  and  woods,  and  out  through  the  gates.  Then 
Mary  turned  to  the  left. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  to  the  top  of  the  Giant.  I  feel 
most  at  home  on  cliffs." 

The  winged  wheels  flew  them  over  the  hills  and  down  the 
hollows,  past  the  farms,  the  pastures,  and  the  orchards, 
and  again  Kirby  felt  the  driving  power  of  this  woman. 
She  sat  there  mature,  eager,  glad,  and  yet  healthily  young. 

Ever  after  his  most  vivid  image  of  her  was  against  gray 
backgrounds.  For  the  heavens  stooped  toward  the  Earth, 
and  the  smokes  from  farm-houses  seemed  bowed  with  age 
and  could  not  straighten;  a  divine  melancholy  brooded 
on  the  dead  stubble  of  the  fields;  the  bitter  cry  of  waters 
was  crossed  by  the  wheels  on  the  jumping  planks  of 
bridges,  and  the  woods  stood  like  grieving  old  women  at 
the  graves  of  their  buried  youth.  It  was  as  if  the  Earth 
were  in  pain  and  the  clouds  were  about  to  administer  the 
gentle  anesthetic  of  the  snow. 

"Somber  and  beautiful,"  was  Mary's  comment.  "I'm 
glad  you  came  to-day." 

He  felt  drawn  to  her,  faint,  helpless.  He  thought  of 
her  at  the  moment  as  a  mother  of  men,  a  strong,  placid 
soul  who  could  enfold  him  and  heal  him. 

She  seemed  meditative. 

"You  met  my  sister,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured. 

She  gave  him  a  stricken  glance. 

"Alice  died  three  months  ago — in  childbirth — and  the 
baby,  too.  There's  nothing  sadder  in  life  than  that." 

He  said  nothing;  he  could  only  think,  "She's  a  great 
soul,  a  great  woman,"  and  he  shrank  beside  her. 

Now  the  car  began  climbing  a  seemingly  endless  hill, 
each  level  bringing  a  new  rise  and  the  woods  shutting 
off  the  top.  Now  and  then,  at  the  right,  the  earth  fell 
away  to  a  far  valley,  that,  as  they  rose,  spread  farther, 
leaping  now  one  range  of  hills,  then  another. 

They  came  through  to  a  sort  of  upward  tableland,  a 

200 


THE    RIDE 

large,  cleared  tract  of  pastures  and  fields;  stone  walls 
stretched  beside  the  road,  and  a  snug  little  farm-house, 
with  barn  and  outhouses,  stood  to  their  right.  In  the 
field  opposite  they  saw  two  young  girls  both  together 
astride  a  running,  unsaddled  horse.  It  was  a  pretty  sight — 
the  hair  of  youth  flying,  the  bodies  lifting  and  falling,  the 
arms  of  the  rear  girl  hugging  the  other.  All  at  once  the 
horse  reared,  the  girls  slipped,  shrieked,  and  came  boun 
cing  down  on  the  ground  in  a  sitting  position. 

It  was  ludicrous  but  alarming.  Mary  stopped  the 
machine,  Kirby  was  about  to  leap  out.  But  they  heard 
the  girls  laughing  merrily,  and  at  once  the  youngsters  rose, 
gesticulated  their  joy,  and  raced  after  the  galloping  horse. 

Kirby  and  Mary  laughed. 

"Wasn't  that  lovely?"  she  said,  and  on  they  went. 

The  road  now  became  steep  and  rocky,  with  here  and 
there  patches  of  grass  and  here  and  there  level  rock; 
a  wild,  stunted  forest  engulfed  them,  and  they  could  see 
nothing  but  the  rising  road  ahead.  There  seemed  miles 
of  this,  until  all  at  once  they  emerged  on  a  grassy  plateau 
in  the  heavens,  and  to  the  right  gray  rocks  reaching 
roughly  up. 
j  "Here  we  are,"  said  Mary. 

She  led  the  way,  and  they  scrambled  up  the  rocks, 
clinging  to  sharp  corners,  getting  a  foothold  in  crannies 
and  cracks,  until  suddenly  they  stood  erect  on  the  rim  of 
the  world.  The  cliff  was  stupendous;  below  them  the 
world  lay,  an  unrolling  map  of  valleys  and  ranges  of  hills, 
lakes,  and  a  misty,  heaving  horizon.  A  bright  wind  blew 
in  their  faces  out  of  boundless  space. 

"I  have  a  favorite  seat  here,"  said  Mary,  and  with  sure 
agility  she  reached  from  rock  to  rock  along  the  dizzy  edge, 
and  seated  herself  in  a  secure  cranny,  her  feet  hanging 
over  space.  Kirby  could  do  nothing  but  awkwardly  follow. 
The  slope  of  the  rock  brought  them  close  together. 

Mary  leaned  forward  as  if,  wings  spread,  she  was  about 
to  swoop  through  the  air. 

201 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"  Oh,"  she  said  in  a  disappointed  tone.  "  We  can't  see 
the  railroad  tracks — there's  mist  along  the  valley." 

But  as  they  looked  they  saw  mushrooms  of  fire  bobbing 
along  the  mist,  which  turned  from  white  to  black. 

"It's  a  freight- train,"  said  Mary. 

That  lost  train  accentuated  their  loneliness,  and  Kirby 
felt-that  they  were  alone  in  the  wide  world;  that  now,  in 
an  emergency,  they  had  only  each  other  on  the  whole 
Earth.  An  elemental  rapture  stole  through  him;  this 
woman  had  him,  and  he  her,  and  the  swirl  of  J.  J.  and 
the  tumult  of  the  city  and  the  walls  of  caste  and  class  fell 
away  to  the  valleys.  On  this  height  they  were  two  equal 
souls — the  Edenic  pair,  the  man  and  the  woman — held,  as 
it  were,  in  the  upraised  hands  of  the  Earth,  who  showed  to 
the  heavens  this  divine  product  of  her  eons  of  struggle  and 
experiment.  They  were  the  first  and  last  of  things; 
through  them  Earth  reached  fruition. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  said  Mary  hi  an  exultant 
voice.  "  I ' ve  brought  my  pocket  Coleridge  with  me. ' ' 

And  she  pulled  from  her  coat  a  well-thumbed  volume, 
and  read,  softly,  thrillingly,  in  the  low  light,  "Hymn  before 
Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni."  Kirby  had  never 
cared  for  poetry,  and  he  had  a  contempt  for  men  who 
could  sit  around  gushing  it;  but  now  from  her  lips  he 
heard  the  rocks  and  the  hills  expressing  themselves: 

Who,  with  living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 
God!  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 


Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  thunder-storm! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element! 
Utter  forth  God  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise!" 
202 


THE    RIDE 

The  poem  seemed  to  free  something  in  her;  she  breathed 
big,  exulting. 

"That  man,"  she  said,  "was  born  with  a  star  on  his 
forehead!" 

He  could  only  say,  banally : 

"You're  fond  of  poets." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "But  there  are  poets 
of  action,  too.  I  sometimes  think  my  father  was  one. 
You  know  Kipling's 

'Dreamer  devout  by  vision  led 

Beyond  our  grasp  and  reach, 
The  travail  of  his  spirit  bred 
Cities  in  place  of  speech.' 

That's  it,  isn't  it?    Father  has  written  epics  in  steel  and 
skyscrapers;  possibly,"  she  mused,  "in  brotherhood." 

"I  must  get  Kipling,"  he  told  himself.  She  was  in 
terpreting  life  anew  for  him.  He  saw  Watts  and  J.  J., 
even  himself,  in  a  new  way. 

The  light  now  began  to  wane  rapidly,  a  great  wind  arose, 
and  gusts  of  soft  snow  fell  on  them,  swiftly  blotting  out 
one  range  of  hills  after  another,  until  the  valley  was 
lost  too,  and  they  were  closed  in,  in  a  world  of  whirling 
white. 

"Isn't  this  glorious?"  said  Mary. 

But  Kirby  was  fully  aroused,  executive. 

"We'll  have  to  get  out  of  this  quick  if  you  want  to  get 
home." 

She  obeyed  him  with  lovely  spirit,  and  he  felt  a  new 
elation,  a  new  masculine  strength.  He  could  command, 
too,  when  the  time  came. 

She  had  some  trouble  in  cranking  up  the  machine,  and 
laughed  grimly  over  it.  It  seemed  impossible  to  light  the 
lamps,  and  finally  she  gave  it  up  and  climbed  in,  and  did 
not  object  when  Kirby  wrapped  a  buffalo-robe  about  her 
shoulders  and  his. 

203 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Good  sense,"  he  thought.  "She  knows  it's  no  time 
for  fooling." 

The  air  was  getting  darker  momently,  the  wind  in 
creasing,  and  a  fierce  storm  smote  them,  blinding  them. 
Through  the  oppressive  silence  they  started,  then  stopped. 

"We'll  have  to  feel  our  way,"  she  said,  quietly.  "You 
don't  mind?" 

"No,"  he  replied. 

They  were  very  close  together  under  that  robe;  it 
stirred  with  their  breathing  and  the  motions  of  her  arms. 

She  stopped  often;  tried  a  bit  of  bumpy  ground; 
searched  for  wagon-ruts;  strained  through  the  snow. 
And  for  a  long  time  they  said  nothing,  but  to  Kirby  it 
was  inexpressibly  sweet  and  wonderful  to  be  out  with  her 
in  the  storm.  It  seemed  now  as  if  they  could  never  leave 
each  other  hereafter. 

The  darkness  now  deepened  into  an  appalling  snow- 
swirling  night,  moist  and  intense,  and,  though  the  wind 
began  to  fall  as  they  reached  lower  levels,  they  were  lost 
in  engulfing  blackness  that  seemed  to  stick  to  them  like 
pitch.  But  Kirby  felt  that  in  all  space  only  she  and  he 
throbbed  with  life;  dim  atoms  pulsing  in  the  primal  dark. 

Suddenly  she  whispered: 

"There's  a  light!" 

A  dim,  watery  gleam  shone  to  the  left,  and,  approach 
ing  it,  they  saw  snow  falling  before  a  lighted  window. 

"Then  there's  one  thing  to  do.  We'll  have  to  put  up 
here,"  said  Kirby.  f% 

Again  she  obeyed  him  silently;  they  felt  the  wheels 
bump  as  the  car  climbed  on  to  the  lawn. 

Kirby  leaped  out  and  found  a  door,  and  knocked.  It 
opened,  and  a  tall,  large-framed  woman  peered  at  him. 

"We're  caught  in  the  storm,"  said  Kirby.  "Could  we 
have  shelter  here  till  it's  over?" 

She  seemed  distrustful,  but  then  spoke  cheerfully: 

"Come  in." 

Mary  followed  him.  They  entered  a  warm,  low  kitchen, 

204 


THE    RIDE 

with  worn  planks  on  the  floor  and  the  rafters  showing  bare 
above.  A  lamp  was  on  the  table,  and  in  the  shadows  a 
kettle  bubbled  on  the  stove.  The  room  had  the  purring 
comfort  of  a  dozing  cat. 

"Oh,  you  came  in  an  auto,"  said  the  woman,  glancing 
at  Mary.  "Well,  you'll  never  get  to  the  valley  in  this." 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "we  were  up  on  the  Giant." 

"Well,  the  men  folk'll  have  to  get  the  auto  into  the  barn 
— that  is,  when  they  come  back.  They're  out  after  the 
cows.  I  thought  they  were  foolish  to  let  the  cattle  out 
this  morning,"  she  laughed,  "but  there's  no  telling  men. 
They've  been  after  them  a  couple  of  hours,  and  I  guess  the 
snow  caught  them." 

Mary  reflected. 

"Couldn't  we  run  the  car  in  the  barn — if  you  show  us 
where?" 

The  woman  took  a  lantern,  and  they  went  out.  Then 
she  opened  the  barn  doors  and  held  the  lantern  high  while 
Mary  ran  the  car  in.  A  heavy  smell  of  dried  hay,  of 
cattle  and  pigs  and  horses,  was  in  the  place,  warm,  steamy, 
elemental. 

,'  As  they  came  back  to  the  house  they  heard  shouts  and 
a  heavy  trampling. 

"They're  coming,"  said  the  woman. 

At  once  in  the  solid  blackness  a  lantern  gleamed,  and 
they  saw  the  coat  of  a  man  and  the  flash  of  a  cow's  flank 
and  the  shadows  of  heavy  animals  in  the  gloom.  Now 
two  large  cow's  eyes  stared  mysteriously,  now  the  profile 
of  a  man's  face  flared  and  died.  Kirby  could  hear  the 
beasts  breathing,  and  smelt  the  warm  odor  of  cattle.  It 
was  all  mysterious,  and  went  back  to  the  dim  pastoral 
ages  of  the  race. 

They  went  in  then,  and  were  welcomed.  It  was  very 
sweet  to  sit  in  the  low  dining-room,  at  the  great  table, 
Mary  and  he  together,  and  the  family  about  them. 
Colwyn  was  a  Welsh  farmer,  with  a  wrinkled,  but 
hardy  skin,  a  spare,  tall,  smiling  fellow;  there  were  two 

205 


big  awkward  sons,  with  fair  faces  and  large  hands,  whose 
main  quality  seemed  a  ravening  hunger;  and  then  there 
were  the  two  giggling  girls  who  had  fallen  from  the  horse. 

Mary  seemed  radiant  with  joy,  and  began  questioning 
Colwyn,  as  the  beef  and  beans  and  large  cups  of  coffee 
and  high  stacks  of  home-made  bread  were  set  down  by 
the  mother.  And  Colwyn  was  the  only  one  who  spoke. 
The  boys,  addressed,  blushed  and  stammered;  the  girls 
giggled  nervously;  the  mother  was  busy. 

"Yes,"  said  Colwyn,  "it's  lonely  up  here,  but  it's  the 
life  I  like — out  in  the  open.  He  there" — he  pointed  his 
knife  at  his  eldest  son — "don't  like  it,  though.  He's  like 
the  rest;  crazy  to  go  to  the  city." 

The  son  blushed  and  buried  his  fair  face  in  a  coffee- 
cup. 

"Why  doesn't  he  go?"  asked  Mary. 

"Well,  he's  trying  to.  He's  been  down  to  the  Com 
mercial  College  last  summer.  But  I'd  hate  to  lose  him. 
He's  my  best."  Pride  rang  in  his  voice.  "I've  watched 
him  among  the  stock." 

Colwyn  was  all  for  spoiling  the  Giant  by  putting  a 
summer  hotel  on  the  top  of  it. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Mary's  protest,  "I'm  not 
strong  on  the  scenery.  I  never  notice  it.  When  you  live 
with  a  thing  it's  just  work,  and  that's  all." 

Peace  came  at  last  to  Kirby,  a  soft  and  wonderful 
tranquillity.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Mary  showed  at  her 
best  in  these  surroundings,  that  her  simplicity  and  sin 
cerity  fitted  into  this  warm  family  life,  this  primitive 
crudeness.  She  was  tender,  animated,  sparkling.  Some 
thing  of  the  girlishness  he  had  noticed  four  years  ago  re 
turned  to  her.  It  seemed  a  woeful  pity  that  wealth  and 
position  forced  her  into  the  artificial  Hfe  of  estates  and 
cities. 

Now  and  then  she  glanced  at  Kirby,  sharing  her  joy 
with  him.  He  laughed;  he,  too,  sparkled;  he  entered 
into  the  talk  with  abandon.  And  when  Colwyn  lit  his 

206 


THE    RIDE 

pipe,  Kirby  lit  a  cigar,  and  they  had  good  gossip  on  hunt 
ing,  and  on  the  differences  between  the  Western  farms 
and  the  Eastern. 

Colwyn  spoke  of  agricultural  colleges  and  the  Depart 
ment  of  Agriculture  at  Washington. 

"This  science,"  he  said,  "is  changing  the  life  of  the 
farmer.  I  was  brought  up  without  it,  but  he  there" — 
and  he  pointed  his  pipe  toward  his  eldest  son — "has 
taught  me  different.  First  thing  you  know  we'll  have  a 
telephone,  an  automobile,  a  steam-plow,  a  harvester,  a 
model  dairy,  chemistry  of  the  soil,  government  tests, 
Burbank-business " — he  gave  a  great  laugh — "and  heaven 
knows  what." 

That  same  science  that  had  built  up  industrialism  and 
the  skyscraper  city  was  reaching  back  to  revolutionize 
the  farm  foundations  of  civilization — everywhere  a  draw 
ing  together,  steam-and-steel  bands  of  tightening  progress. 
Not  even  the  pastoral  escaped  the  Jordan  Watts'.  Kirby 
was  impressed  by  this  rapid  organization  of  the  world, 
which  harnessed  forest  and  prairie,  peak  and  sea,  to  the 
central  cities.  There  was  no  way  of  escaping  from 
civilization. 

It  seemed  already  midnight,  when,  in  the  hush  of  the 
snow,  the  clock  struck  nine.  The  tired  boys  were  yawning. 
Colwyn  arose. 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  murmured,  "the  wind's  dropped." 

He  pushed  aside  the  shade  and  peered  out. 

"Stopped,"  he  said,  "and  there's  moonlight." 

"Then,"  said  Mary,  "we  can  make  the  valley." 

The  Colwyns  were  for  keeping  them  overnight,  but 
Mary  was  undissuadable.  And  so,  wrapped  warm,  the 
family  followed  the  pair  in  the  intense  stillness  of  the  night. 
The  snow  was  packed  firm  and  crunched  under  foot. 

"We  can  surely  make  it,"  said  Mary.  The  words 
floated  from  her  lips  on  faint  steam ;  all  the  landscape  was 
violet-shadowed  with  the  immense  expanse  of  snow;  trees 
were  laden;  fences  buried. 

207 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Kirby  paid  Mrs.  Colwyn,  and  that  urisophisticated 
woman  refused  more  than  twenty-five  cents  each  for  the 
meal.  Then  Mary  ran  the  lamp-bright  car  from  the  barn ; 
Kirby  climbed  in;  they  exchanged  good-bys;  the  wheels 
ground  the  snow,  and  the  car  curved  into  the  road. 
The  family  waved  and  called,  Kirby  fluttered  his  hand 
kerchief,  Mary  nodded  and  smiled,  and  they  were  off 
down  the  long,  still  slope. 

Mary  spoke  with  haunting  wistfulness: 

"Oh,  if  one  could  only  stay  here!" 

Kirby  looked  at  her;  his  heart  was  full ;  a  vital  moment 
seemed  at  hand.  Again  the  night  contained  only  these 
two,  the  speeded  wheels,  the  light  on  snow  ahead,  the 
gleaming  moon.  The  world  grew  still  as  if  to  hear  them; 
Kirby  felt  that  if  he  lifted  his  voice  he  could  send  his  cry 
over  the  horizon;  and  he  dreamt  of  ecstasy  undying.  All 
that  he  might  say  was,  "I  love  you,"  and  that  surely  he 
could  not  say. 

And  so  neither  spoke.  The  car  flew;  the  cold  grew 
intense,  and  there  rose  in  the  moonlight  the  faint  wisps 
of  their  breath.  Lower  and  lower  sank  the  car  until  it 
speeded  up  the  valley,  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

"We're  here,"  breathed  Mary. 

That  meant  "It's  all  over."  But  it  was  not  over  yet; 
entering  the  fire-dancing  hall,  standing  alone  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  clasping  hands  over  their  good  night,  they 
still  felt  in  the  tugging  tide  of  ineffable  Romance. 

"Good  night!"  they  whispered. 

"And  aren't  you  glad,"  said  Mary,  "that  you  came 
to-day?" 

He  climbed  the  steps,  getting  a  last  glimpse  of  her 
upturned,  radiant  face;  he  sought  his  room;  he  laid  him 
down  in  a  world  utterly  hushed  in  snow.  And  he  thought 
it  would  be  sweet  to  take  Mary  to  some  low  dwelling  in 
some  remote  country  and  live  all  life  with  her  against,  the 
warm  heart  of  Nature. 


XIX 

THE   RETURN 

WHEN  Kirby  awoke  the  next  morning  the  room  was  a 
splendor  of  sunlight.  Then,  as  his  breath  steamed 
in  the  keen  air,  and  he  began  to  dress,  the  thought  occurred 
to  him  that  possibly  Mary  was  dressing,  too.  This  ele 
mental  and  necessary  ritual  they  were  both  engaged  in 
under  the  same  roof -tree  seemed,  more  than  anything 
else,  to  put  them  on  the  same  footing;  she  was  just  a 
woman,  he  a  man,  putting  on  clothes.  They  were  the 
same  naked  children  of  the  earth.  And  somehow  this 
homely  proximity,  this  delightful  arising  together  as  if  in 
the  heart  of  a  family,  made  him  want  to  sing  his  joy. 

It  was  the  invasion  of  Kirby  by  that  stranger — ecstasy ; 
that  up-welling  of  flaming  music  through  all  the  body; 
that  pure  and  soaring  joy  that  puts  the  wings  of  the  sun 
rise  On  commercial  clay.  He  would  have  envied  the  wood 
cutters  sawing  between  them  an  oak  in  the  forest  while 
they  sang  with  clean,  strong  voices.  He  was  like  a  cup 
overrunning  with  the  wine  of  life.  It  was  health,  youth, 
the  morning;  and  it  was  love. 

Going  down  the  steps  with  lusty  tread  he  reached  and 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  on  the  side  porch.  The 
day  blinded  him;  the  air  was  almost  a  fire  of  clear  cold, 
and,  blinking,  he  saw  the  world  an  undented  whiteness, 
shimmering  with  sun,  the  trees  cottoned  over  to  the 
last  twig,  and  the  vast  downward-sloping  landscape  one 
splendor  of  snow.  A  mile  off  he  saw  the  pines  in  the 
forest,  green  shadows  through  white.  The  skies  were  a 

209 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

blazing  and  melting  blue,  and  the  air  was  thrice-washed, 
thrice-rinsed,  and  sparklingly  transparent. 

His  lungs  seemed  to  dance  with  the  inrush  of  this  living 
air,  and  he  stood  half  dreaming  that  he  and  Mary  had 
gone  off  to  the  heart  of  a  forest,  and  that  while  she  was 
gathering  wood  for  a  fire  he  was  using  hammer  and  saw 
to  build  a  cabin  out  of  pine,  and  that  in  the  early  light 
they  were  both  singing  together  at  their  tasks.  And  while 
he  was  lost  in  this  dream  there  came  a  light  touch  on  his 
arm;  turning,  he  saw  her  there,  her  cheeks  mantled  with 
red,  her  eyes  flashing.  She  laughed  from  her  heart, 
clearly. 

"Good  morning!"  she  said. 

"Good  morning!"  he  answered. 

This  was  the  ancient  duet  of  human  youth  on  the 
Earth;  pity  was  they  couldn't  put  it  in  song  like  the  wood- 
thrushes. 

"Did  you  sleep  well?"  she  asked. 

"Solid.     And  you?" 

"All  right." 

What  they  meant  was,  "We  glory  in  being  alive." 
They  leaned,  in  comrade  silence,  and  gazed  on  the 
landscape. 

"How  I  envy  the  Colwyns!"  she  said. 

But  he  didn't;  Mary  at  his  side,  he  merely  envied  a 
moment  that  was  passing  and  that  wouldn't  return. 

They  went  in  then,  and  in  the  bright  room,  alone  to 
gether,  they  ate,  like  sound,  healthy  youngsters,  a  great 
breakfast.  Afterward  Mary  took  him  to  see  the  live 
stock.  The  spirit  of  adventure  was  still  upon  them. 
But  wandering  toward  the  house  at  eleven  they  heard 
behind  them  the  approach  of  an  automobile,  and  suddenly 
Mary  said  in  her  incisive  way: 

"There's  the  world  coming  back  to  us!" 

And  with  those  words  the  adventure  was  over;  that 
Edenic  interval  of  their  primal  companionship  faded  into 
those  bright  memories  which  seem  of  visions  too  wonder- 

210 


THE    RETURN 

ful  to  have  existed.  She  was  the  king's  daughter  again, 
and  he  the  Acting  Business  Manager  of  Harrington's 
Magazine. 

In  fact,  the  guests  were  upon  them,  and  soon  the  house 
buzzed  with  strangers. 

From  then  on  Kirby's  stay  was  a  dreary  nightmare. 
He  was  introduced  to  a  senator,  a  judge,  brokers,  bankers, 
corporation  heads,  a  couple  of  lawyers,  and  an  assortment 
of  van-aged  women.  The  successful  men  passed  him  over 
as  negligible;  a  few  of  the  women  were  attracted  by  his 
face  and  bearing,  but  they  bored  him  raspingly  with  petty 
gossip;  and  Mary  was  lost  in  the  center  of  a  flattering 
circle.  His  one  relief  was  that  sharp  Jordan  Watts  was 
not  there. 

Lunch  over,  there  were  sleighing-parties ;  supper  over, 
they  endured  the  music  of  some  near-Paderewski  imported 
from  Bavaria;  night  over,  they  had  late  breakfasts  and 
lounged  or  inspected  the  stables;  dinner  over,  and  Kirby 
departed. 

But  Mary  took  him  out  to  the  automobile,  and  in  the 
soft,  melting  weather  she  stood  and  smiled;  yes,  almost 
smiled  back  Eden. 

"It's  good  you  came  Friday,"  she  said,  and  then  paused 
as  if  wanting  to  say  more.  Finally  she  spoke  in  a  changed 
voice:  "Father  and  I  are  going  West  in  a  few  days — a 
business  trip  for  him;  we  won't  be  back  till  spring.  As 
soon  as  I  get  back  we  must  ride  out  again." 

He  saw  the  cloudy  wistfulness  in  her  strong  face,  and 
he  felt  as  if  the  light  of  the  world  was  out.  West  until 
spring !  He  could  only  murmur : 

"I  hope  it  will  be  a  good  trip." 

He  climbed  into  the  car,  and  she  leaned  over  the  dash 
board.  Her  voice  was  tremulous: 

"Here,"  and  she  handed  him  a  worn  little  book.  It  was 
the  pocket  Coleridge. 

He  gazed  at  her,  unable  to  speak,  merely  smiled  sadly 
and  nodded. 

15  211 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Good-by!"  she  whispered,  and,  as  the  car  sped,  he 
turned  and  saw  her  standing  there,  unmoving,  looking 
after  him. 

On  the  train  he  read  "Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale 
of  Chamouni,"  and  he  said  to  himself,  "What  a  fool  I  am! 
What  a  fool  I  am !"  and  he  thought  of  the  circle  of  flatterers 
that  engulfed  her.  Yet  she  had  given  him  Coleridge, 
"the  man  who  was  born  with  a  star  on  his  forehead." 


XX 

SUCCESS 

DURING  the  ensuing  months  Kirby's  main  occupation 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the  spring,  killing  time, 
pulling  days  off  the  calendar.     January  kept  May  eter 
nities  away  and  went  at  snail's  pace;    February  went 
slower;    March  didn't  seem  to  go  at  all. 

And  all  this  time  was  one  of  capricious  moods.  Now 
remembering  the  snow-storm  and  every  little  word  and 
gesture  of  Mary,  he  would  be  insanely  happy,  come  to 
work  whistling,  hum  at  his  desk :  then  suddenly  he  would 
develop  a  dark  languor,  which  might  give  to  a  tragic 
despair  or  a  frenzied  fit  of  temper. 

In  other  words,  Kirby  found  himself  doing  what  he  had 
heartily  condemned  in  others.  He  had  always  said,  "No 
man  of  common  sense  would  do  such  things,"  and  yet,  at 
the  pinch,  he,  notably  a  man  of  common  sense,  proved 
madder  than  the  rest.  For  in  the  still  watches  of  the 
night  he  made  the  horrible  acquaintance  of  a  queer  and 
squirmy  assortment  of  hobgoblins,  demons,  sprites,  devils, 
and  beasts,  which  all  this  time,  like  conspirators  waiting 
the  witching  hour,  had  remained  secreted  in  his  skull, 
thoughtfully  deposited  there  by  an  evolutionary  process 
of  a  few  hundred  million  years.  In  other  words,  Kirby 
was  in  the  hands  of  his  ancestors,  the  snake,  the  fish,  the 
tiger,  the  dove,  and  the  cave-man,  and  they  seemed  to 
delight  in  making  a  monkey  of  their  descendant. 

"Dance,  son,"  they  said,  "crawl  on  your  belly,  howl, 
caper,  cavort,  climb  trees,  and  make  a  spectacle  of  your 
self.  The  ages  are  looking  down  on  you." 

213 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

And  while  the  ages  watched,  the  Acting  Business  Man 
ager  joined  the  light-footed,  cracked-brained  host  who 
lisp  iambics  in  the  face  of  the  moon,  the  fantastic  madmen 
who  heave  sighs,  conjure  the  stars,  abhor  food,  and  become 
the  bedfellows  of  bat-winged  insomnia.  It  was  that  sweet 
insanity  of  being  in  love. 

Myrtle  alone  understood  the  strange  symptoms,  and 
pitied  him.  But  Allison  made  the  comment: 

"It's  J.  J.  The  old  devil's  got  him  at  last.  J.  J.'s  is 
a  lunatic  factory;  they  all  go  nutty  over  there." 

And  Brent  felt  that  Kirby  had  a  "swelled  head,"  and 
was  withdrawing  from  the  vulgar  herd,  including  himself. 

For  there  were  times — sometimes  once  a  week — when 
Kirby  was  a  pale,  melancholy  young  man  eating  his  supper 
as  if  he  sat  on  the  moon  and  was  angling  for  lamb  chops 
with  a  rod  and  line,  he  "wasn't  there  at  all,"  he  was  dis 
tinctly  "missing,"  and  right  after  the  meal  he  bolted  for 
his  room  and  locked  himself  in  or  rushed  out  of  house 
to  consort  with  the  winds  of  the  night  and  the  complain 
ings  of  the  naked  trees. 

At  such  dark  intervals  he  became  involved  in  poetry, 
starting  on  the  pocket  Coleridge  which  he  kept  under  his 
pillow.  But  Coleridge  wasn't  the  real  thing.  He  tried 
Kipling;  Kipling  was  brutal.  He  tried  Shakespeare,  and 
seized  by  heart  whole  passages  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
mouthing  blank  verse  along  the  lonely  night  roads,  as: 

But  soft!    what  light  through  yonder  window  breaks? 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun; 

or,  better  still,  with  modern  improvements: 

More  validity, 

More  honorable  state,  more  courtship  lives 
In  carrion-flies  than  Kirby:    they  may  seize 
On  the  white  wonder  of  dear  Mary's  hand 
And  steal  immortal  blessing  from  her  lips. 
214 


SUCCESS 

This  Italian  fervor  palled  in  time,  and  he  discovered  Keats 
and  St.  Agnes  Eve,  "Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was!"  And  when 
this  ceased  to  make  sense  he  became  the  murderer  in  Tenny 
son's  "Maud": 

Then  let  come  what  come  may, 

What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Or,  "Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud,"  or,  better  still, 
"Courage,  Poor  Heart  of  Stone!" 

And  finally  nothing  would  do  but  to  write  a  poem  him 
self.  It  was  one  of  a  March  night,  with  winds  buffeting 
the  house,  and  he  sat,  half-dressed,  at  the  lamp-lit  table, 
with  staring  eyes  that  saw  the  rock  cranny  on  the  top  of 
the  Giant,  the  falling  snow,  and  his  love  sitting  beside 
him.  Her  eyes  rested  on  his,  her  white  hand  lay  on  her 
lap,  her  lips  trembled,  and  achingly  he  reached  nearer, 
drew  her  close,  and  in  the  ecstasy  of  that  kiss  he  almost 
swooned.  To  almost  every  soul  on  the  earth  there  come 
once,  and  once  only,  the  four  great  things  of  life — birth, 
marriage,  death,  and  a  poem.  And  now  came  the  poem 
to  Kirby. 

Perhaps  the  watching  ages,  unlike  hard-hearted  mor 
tals,  didn't  even  smile  at  his  effort,  knowing  that  when  a 
Kirby  bursts  into  verse  the  rocks  themselves  are  uttering 
music.  Even  if  he  didn't  have  a  Shakespeare's  power  of 
expression,  he  had,  for  that  supreme  moment,  the  mood 
and  urge  of  a  Shakespeare,  and  proved  that  the  divine 
elixir  moistens  every  lip  of  the  race.  He  went  to  sleep 
glowing  over  the  immortal  fragment  he  had  penned,  but 
when  he  re-read  it  in  the  morning  light  he  was  vaguely  re 
minded  of  lyrics  impudently  published  in  the  newspapers  in 
breach-of -promise  suits  when  some  hard-headed  business 
man  forgot  himself  in  rhyme.  It  was  Kirby 's  first  and 
last  poem,  and  he  resolved  to  shun  the  solace  of  the  poets 
for  the  medicinal  virtues  of  bartenders  and  theatrical 
managers.  But  it  relieved  his  feelings  for  a  week. 

215 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

He  became  known  now  in  the  business  for  his  silences 
and  his  smokes,  his  ups  and  downs.  There  were  times 
when,  buoyed  up  to  an  irresponsible  pitch  by  the  bright 
memories  of  the  night  at  Colwyn's,  he  led  the  office  a  merry 
race  of  brilliant  toil,  and  then  other  times  when  this 
gaiety  was  dashed  to  bits  by  sane  and  calm  reflection. 

"Don't  let  me  fool  myself,"  he  told  his  heart,  bitterly. 
He  was  nothing  but  a  poor  young  man  who  at  any  moment 
might  become  a  job-hunter  in  New  York.  Even  if  Mary 
loved  him,  even  if  she  had  the  courage  of  those  men  and 
women  who  broke  from  their  class  and  made  low  mar 
riages,  thereby  getting  a  newspaper  notoriety  that  put  to 
shame  incest,  murder,  and  Presidential  messages,  as  a 
decent  fellow  he  could  not  consent  to  have  her  ruin  her 
self.  Worse  than  that,  he  could  not  consent  to  have  her 
give  up  luxury  and  freedom  and  live  such  a  life  as  Frances 
Ferguson  had  endured.  Imagine  Mary  sweeping  floors, 
washing  dishes,  drudging  in  a  dreary  suburb !  It  was  im 
possible,  no  matter  which  way  he  looked  at  it.  He  must 
live  it  down,  forget,  bury  himself  in  work. 

At  times  he  did  this  with  some  success.  His  drive  at 
the  office  then  would  become  bitter,  relentless.  He  would 
be  more  savage  than  ever  with  his  inferiors;  he  would  con 
centrate  with  inhuman  pressure  on  the  tasks  in  hand. 
Pale,  bright-eyed,  haughty,  he  would  speed  up  himself  and 
the  others,  until  they  called  him  "the  slave-driver." 

J.  J.  was  pleased.  There  had  never  been  such  a  storm  of 
energy  in  the  factory  before.  But  the  staff  inwardly  raged 
with  jealousy;  they  waited  like  a  wolf-pack  watching  for 
the  first  slip. 

And  yet,  withal,  even  at  such  times  he  carried  about 
with  him  an  air  of  bright  attraction,  so  that  the  girls  of 
the  subscription  department  sighed  and  gazed  after  him. 
There  was  something  wonderful  in  his  desperate  speed: 
the  sky-flung  scarf  of  a  meteor  that  burns  its  way.  And 
then  came  the  intervals  of  lucidity  and  light  sweet-hearted 
joy.  At  such  times  he  saw  lovers  everywhere,  and  shared 

216 


SUCCESS 

the  thrill  of  eyes  meeting  and  hands  touching;  and  he  was 
very  good  to  women  because  Mary  was  a  woman;  and 
very  gentle  with  children. 

One  noon  he  and  Brent  found  a  poor  woman  trying  to 
drag  home  an  impossible  armful  of  gathered  kindlings. 
'f.  "Here's  a  job  for  us,"  said  Kirby,  and  he  and  Brent 
relieved  the  amazed  woman,  who  followed  them  dumbly 
up  the  village  street  to  her  little  house. 

Another  time  Meggs  told  him  that  one  of  the  girls  was 
in  a  bad  way. 

"She  loved  a  man  that  took  advantage  of  her." 

"She  did  it  for  love,"  thought  Kirby  and  tenderly 
shielded  this  girl,  and  himself  furnished  the  money  to  send 
her  to  a  sanatorium. 

And  once,  on  a  bright  March  day,  he  so  convinced 
J.  J.  that  he  was  allowed  to  arrange  an  outing  for  the 
girls  and  the  pressmen  in  the  woods,  and  he  himself  was 
the  bright  spirit  of  the  undertaking,  dancing  with  favored 
young  women,  helping  to  serve  the  ice-cream,  the  sand 
wiches  and  cakes,  and  proving  himself  the  darling  of  the 
whole  business.  For,  he  reflected,  there  must  be  lovers 
among  these  men  and  women,  and  such  a  day  meant 
paradise  for  them. 

But  such  moments  were  rare  enough,  like  the  last 
feeble  lightning-glances  of  a  departing  storm.  More  often 
his  splendid  unruly  spirit  was  in  a  bitter  plight;  he  found 
himself  at  odds  with  life,  and  ceased  to  care  what  hap 
pened.  At  such  times  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  main 
thing  was  to  pull  this  barbed  arrow  of  love  from  his  heart 
even  if  he  were  killed.  And  he  felt  that  he  knew  the 
slipperiness  of  achievement,  the  surge  and  sweep  of  primal 
forces  that  engulf  human  life  and  make  of  a  man  a  little 
world  of  passing  vision.  To  make  one's  way  through  life, 
he  reflected,  was  to  balance  on  one  floating  cake  of  ice 
after  another,  merely  to  be  drowned  in  the  end.  He 
wanted  to  still  the  restless  fever,  the  idiot  dreams  and 
doings  of  his  brief  hour. 

217 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

And  so  at  such  times  J.  J.  and  all  his  enterprises  and 
schemes,  and  the  gay,  fat  magazine  that  was  scattered  like 
a  blaze  of  Roman  candles  over  a  drudging  people,  and  all 
the  rottenness  of  debt  and  routine  and  strenuous  toil, 
seemed  like  the  delirious  images  of  a  diseased  mind.  They 
had  no  meaning;  they  led  nowhere.  Dust  to  dust.  Then 
it  was  only  to  keep  himself  from  being  lost  in  morbidity 
that  he  struggled  fiercely,  drove  hard.  Work  was  an 
anodyne. 

As  a  result  of  all  this  pressure  and  the  clashing  divisions 
of  his  soul  this  powerful  young  man  began  now  and  then 
to  exhibit  strange  lapses  of  temper,  almost  in  the  manner 
of  J.  J.  It  led  him  to  understand  that  Captain  of  In 
dustry;  to  know  how  great  must  be  the  stress,  the  pain, 
the  weight  of  life  to  make  a  human  being  rave  like  a  caged 
animal.  For  so  in  extreme  moments  he  became  himself. 
Twice  he  discharged  on  the  spot  erring  office-boys,  and  no 
one,  save  himself,  questioned  his  right  to  do  so.  But  at 
length  came  a  sharp  trouble  with  Meggs. 

He  had  given  an  order  that  Meggs  install  new  addressing- 
machines  which  would  do  away  with  the  labor  of  thirty 
girls.  Meggs  received  it  on  a  rainy  April  morning,  when 
the  woods  were  lost  in  mist  and  the  open  windows  breathed 
with  moist  and  blossom-scented  air.  Looking  out  on  the 
world,  which  lay  like  a  baby  in  its  swaddling-clothes,  a 
faint  venture  of  new  life  softly  wrapped  by  the  musing 
mother,  his  heart  was  touched  with  pity  and  love.  He  felt 
the  frail  beauty  of  life  which  bluebirds  on  the  telegraph 
wires  were  freshly  uttering  forth. 

He  turned  and  went  through  the  empty  center  hall, 
which,  hushed,  was  yet  invaded  by  the  wet,  sweet  air,  and 
was  restless  with  the  quiver  of  awakening  life. 

"Surely,"  he  thought,  "he'll  listen  to  reason  on  a  day 
like  this." 

Timidly  he  knocked,  and  Kirby  called: 

"Come  in." 

He  entered.  Kirby  sat  at  a  center  flat  desk,  the  mild 
218 


SUCCESS 

light  of  the  windows  back  of  him  leaving  his  face  in 
shadow.  He  did  this  on  purpose.  It  threw  the  light  on 
those  who  came  to  him,  and  hid  him  at  the  same  time 
from  their  gaze;  it  gave  him  the  advantage  of  reading 
expressions  without  showing  any. 

Meggs  stood  smiling,  a  little  man  with  a  knobby  head, 
sunken  eyes,  and  narrow  jaw. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Kirby. 

"This  order  about  the  new  machines — 

"What  about  it?"  Kirby  broke  in. 

"  I  hear  they  don't  work  right — 

Kirby  had  the  queer  sensation  of  having  no  control  of 
himself.  It  was  as  if  he  were  a  tool  seized  up  by  some 
great  invisible  hand. 

"Snap  judgment!"  he  said,  sharply.  "Just  you  leave 
that  to  me." 

Meggs  hesitated.  He  adored  Kirby,  but  feared  him 
also.  Then  he  spoke  in  a  quavering  voice,  that  yet  had 
a  certain  luminous  courage  in  it. 

"I  was  thinking  this  morning  I've  known  these  girls 
for  years,  Mr.  Trask,  and  if  they  lose  their  jobs — " 

Kirby  felt  himself  rise,  heard  his  lips  speaking  coldly: 

"That's  the  argument  that  Labor  has  always  used 
against  the  introduction  of  machinery.  Don't  senti 
mentalize,  Meggs." 

But  Meggs  persisted: 

"  I  haven't  the  heart  to  fire  those  girls,  I  really  haven't. 
Put  yourself  in  their  place." 

Then  Kirby,  almost  against  his  will,  put  the  matter 
in  a  fatal  way: 

"You'll  do  it  anyway,"  he  commanded. 

The  phrase  pitted  the  two  against  each  other,  and  in  a 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  liquid  lisping  of  the  blue 
birds  mating  out  in  the  mist,  they  faced  each  other,  man 
to  man,  in  final  and  deadly  antagonism.  It  was  now  one 
or  the  other;  there  could  be  no  compromise. 

Meggs  was  brave,  though  his  voice  trembled  and 
219 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

sounded  odd;  for  from  a  petty  body  and  brain,  a  little 
dried-up  drudge,  proceeded  something  solemn  and 
beautiful: 

"  If  those  girls  leave,  Mr.  Trask,  I  go  with  them." 

Kirby  felt  the  grandeur  of  this,  and  winced.  Then  he 
said,  hotly: 

"Why,  then  you'll  go,  too." 

Meggs  was  ghastly  pale.     He  smiled. 

"Ah,  no,  now;  the  girls  can  stay,  can't  they?" 

"You're  mistaken,"  said  Kirby  in  a  dreadful  voice. 
"For  I  discharge  both  them  and  you — now" 

"Discharge?"  breathed  Meggs.  "No,  I  spoke  first. 
This  is  a  sorry  day  for  both  of  us,  Mr.  Trask." 

And  he  went  out  and  saw  Martin.  Martin  had  been 
waiting  for  just  such  an  opportunity;  it  certainly  put 
Kirby  in  a  bad  light. 

"We'll  see  my  father  about  this,"  he  said.  "Come  on. 
I'll  put  a  stop  to  this  maniac." 

Meggs  shook  his  head,  but  they  went  up  to  the  house 
together.  Kirby,  however,  had  preceded  them.  With 
out  waiting  to  take  coat  and  hat,  and  smiling  bitterly, 
he  went  down  the  stairs  and  up  the  gravel  path  in  the  soft, 
sweet  rain.  His  face  was  white,  and  his  heart  beat  with 
amazing  rapidity.  Nature  enfolded  him  in  infantile 
loveliness,  every  tiny  blade  of  grass,  every  touch  of  fresh 
green  on  glistening  twig  bringing  news  of  the  mating 
season,  the  birth  season,  the  season  of  renewal  and  love. 

And  he  knew  that  he  liked  Meggs,  that  J.  J.  liked  him, 
and  that  this  busy  detail-man  was  one  of  the  assets  of  the 
business.  And  he  knew  that  he  had  handled  the  matter 
grossly.  But  he  felt  curiously  impotent — like  a  man 
fallen  into  a  cataract  against  which  he  cannot  swim  and 
which  bears  him  fatally  along.  He  had  done  a  foul  deed, 
he  had  committed  the  one  unpardonable  sin — that  of 
breaking  the  erect  spirit  of  a  human  being,  that  of  tram 
pling  a  living  soul  underfoot.  He  was  ruining  a  straight 
man.  He  could  dimly  glimpse  the  cause  of  most  crime, 

220 


SUCCESS 

the  process  of  months  of  brooding  and  scheming  and  bitter 
ness  at  last  heaping  up  a  power  that  used  the  man  like  a 
mere  mechanism  to  do  an  unnamable  deed.  He  did  not 
feel  that  it  was  himself  at  all. 

Nevertheless,  when  J.  J.  called  him  into  the  large  room, 
he  went  up  rapidly  and  made  his  report  of  the  incident. 

"Isn't  that  a  little  hasty?"  asked  J.  J. 

"Hasty  or  not,"  said  Kirby,  "that's  the  way  matters 
stand.  It's  a  question  of  maintaining  discipline  now.  If 
I  give  in  on  this  my  power  over  the  men  is  broken." 

Just  then  the  door  swung  open,  and  Martin  rushed  in, 
followed  by  Meggs.  Martin's  face  was  a  study  in  exultant 
hate. 

"Father!"  he  cried.     "See  here!" 

J.  J.  jumped  up. 

"What  the  devil's  this?"  he  roared. 

"What?"  cried  Martin.  "Just  this:  Trask  has  gone 
a  little  too  far,  and  I  won't  stand  for  it." 

This  was  an  unfortunate  way  of  putting  it;  J.  J.  had 
been  in  a  pacific  mood,  but  now  he  exploded  with  rage: 

"You  won't,  you  damned  pup?  We'll  see.  Do  you 
mean  to  say,  Mr.  Meggs,  that  you  refuse  to  put  in  these 
machines?" 

Meggs  looked  on  the  floor  and  spoke  softly. 

"I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this — " 

"  Then  go  and  put  in  those  machines,  you  dirty  whipper- 
snapper." 

Meggs  said  nothing,  but  Martin  broke  in: 

"Now,  see  here,  are  you  backing  Trask  in  this?" 

Kirby  felt  something  snap  in  his  brain.  He'd  show 
Martin,  and  all  of  them,  the  jealous  fools !  But  the  cold 
words  amazed  even  himself  before  they  were  half  spo 
ken: 

"He's  got  to  go — or  I've  got  to  go." 

There  was  a  painful  silence.  J.  J.  stared  at  the  rebel 
spirit  he  himself  had  evoked  from  the  "vasty  deeps." 
But  he  understood  a  man  so  much  like  himself,  and  he  put 

221 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Kirby  before  all  the  others.  Nevertheless,  he  purposed 
to  argue,  when  Martin  exclaimed: 

"It's  time,  then,  that  Trask  got  out  of  here." 

J.  J.  became  furious. 

"Shut  up,  Martin!  Mr.  Meggs,  you've  heard  what 
Mr.  Trask  has  said.  I  can  add  nothing  to  it." 

Meggs  gave  a  whimpering  "Yes,  sir,"  and  stood  a  mo 
ment  paralyzed  and  dumb.  It  was  all  unbelievable;  years 
of  service  frustrated  at  a  blow;  his  future  gone;  his  family 
to  be  informed.  Then  he  smiled  feebly,  rubbed  his  hands, 
turned,  and  went  out.  Years  older,  too,  with  head  bowed, 
another  of  the  room's  broken  men. 

But  Martin  almost  shrieked  his  rage: 

"You  old  fool,  this  is  going  too  far.  You're  setting 
up  Trask  to  be  a  little  tin  god.  I  won't  stand  for  it.  I 
won't  have  him  strutting  around  here  any  more.  He's 
just  a  common  clerk,  an  upstart.  He's  worked  you  for 
all  he's  worth.  I  won't  stand  it — 

"You  won't?"  yelled  this  father  to  his  dearly  beloved 
son.  "All  right,  you —  Mr.  Trask,  after  this  you're 
Business  Manager  at  five  thousand  a  year.  Now  get  the 
hell  out  of  here,  the  whole  lot  of  you." 

Thus  did  Kirby  reach  the  peak  of  success.  He  had  made 
good,  and  over  the  body  of  a  humble  detail-man  he  stepped 
into  power.  But  he  did  not  exult.  The  moment  of  his 
triumph  was  bitter.  He  knew  now  that  he  held  dark  and 
terrible  things  in  his  nature;  he  knew  how  near  a  man  is 
to  crime  and  sin  and  infamy;  and  he  was  amazed  at  his 
own  helplessness  before  these  crushing  powers.  He  had 
a  dull  desire  to  cry,  to  put  his  head 'on  a  woman's  shoulder 
and  weep  his  heart  out.  What  would  Mary  say  if  she 
knew  this  secret  Kirby?  He  felt  now  more  than  ever 
that  he  was  unworthy  of  her — the  muddy  slime  beneath 
her  feet.  And  was  it  not  strange  that  love  which  calls 
out  of  a  man  an  angel  and  a  god  should  at  the  same  time 
evoke  a  devil  and  a  beast?  His  remorse  was  over 
powering  for  some  time  ....  a  sweet  thing  to  say  of  Kirby. 

222 


SUCCESS 

And  even  when,  a  week  later,  the  news,  sent  on  to  his 
sister  in  Chicago,  was  blazoned  in  the  Trent  newspapers 
with  flaring  headlines — "A  Trent  Young  Man  Rises  to  the 
Top,"  "Our  Foremost  Citizen  in  the  East" — there  was  no 
sweetness  in  this  fame.  Having  all,  he  had  nothing. 
The  business  was  a  quicksand,  Mary  was  unattainable, 
and  he  had  forced  himself  up  over  a  broken  spirit.  Be 
sides,  one  of  the  home  papers  contained  a  crudely  unfor 
tunate  phrase:  "Mr.  Trask,"  wrote  the  hasty  reporter, 
"has  gone  right  up  like  a  skyrocket." 

A  skyrocket!  Up  like  a  skyrocket,  down  like  a  stick! 
How  most  inept! 

Thus  was  his  travail  at  the  end  of  April.  Spring  at  last 
was  here,  after  an  infinite  winter.  He  did  not  know  how 
he  had  lived  through  it,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not  bear 
to  wait  longer.  The  strain  was  too  much.  Every  night 
he  looked  toward  the  West  and  sent  out  a  silent  cry: 

' '  Mary !  Mary !    Come !    Come !    I  'm  waiting. ' ' 


XXI 

THE   RIVAL 

ONE  morning  early  in  May  Kirby's  protracted  fever 
fell  from  him  like  scales.     For  he  held  in  his  hand  a 
little  note — a  fresh,  sweet  note: 

DEAR  MR.  TRASK, — We  are  back — back  at  High  Hill — and 
spring  has  come,  too.  Won't  you  come  on  Saturday?  I've 
taken  pains  to  limit  father  to  two  or  three  men  and  only  two 
women.  I  remember  the  snow-storm  and  Coleridge  and  Colwyn's : 
what  if  we  slip  away  and  see  how  the  Giant  is  in  springtime? 

Faithfully,  MARY  WATTS. 

He  got  up,  locked  the  office  door,  kissed  the  note,  and 
wiped  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  The  relief  was  blessed. 
He  felt  as  if  all  tragedy  and  sordidness  left  him,  as  if  he 
were  a  radiant  youth  again.  It  was  divine;  it  was 
exquisite. 

A  soft  gayness  went  into  his  manner.  He  was  gentle 
with  his  inferiors,  pleasant  at  the  Allisons,  faintly  animated. 
They  wondered  at  the  change. 

Then  on  Saturday,  at  eleven-forty-five,  he  got  off  the 
train  at  Pactic.  Again  the  brown  automobile  and  the  big 
chauffeur  waited.  He  got  in,  the  car  started  with  a  jolt, 
crossed  the  tracks,  made  for  open  country. 

"Spring  weather!"  said  the  chauffeur.  He  seemed  de 
sirous  of  expressing  himself  at  this  expressive  season. 
"Late  in  coming,  but  now  everything's  green.  Looks 
like  business  again.  And  mud!  I  spend  hours  cleaning 
the  car  after  a  run!" 

224 


THE    RIVAL 

Kirby  murmured  a  "yes"  and  sat  back,  lost  in  wonder. 
For  the  barrenness,  the  coldness,  and  melancholy  of  Earth 
had  turned  at  the  touch  of  the  wand  of  May  into  a  garden 
of  enchantment.  The  breasts  of  the  hills  were  patched 
with  squares  of  van-colored  green,  the  woods  were  tinted 
with  young  foliage,  the  orchards  snowy-white  with  frailest 
blossoms,  and  the  far  landscape  lay  steamy  new  under  the 
soft  blue  heavens.  The  air  was  mild  and  fresh  and  full 
of  the  lures  of  little  winds. 

Every  item  of  the  scene,  each  motion  and  action  of  life 
had  exquisite  meaning.  Here  was  glancing  sun  on  pud 
dles,  here  children  shouting  as  they  waded  with  bare  feet 
in  tinkling  creeks,  and  here  in  the  long  pasture  the  mare 
whinnied,  wheeled,  and  loped  with  her  colt  up  the  stony 
slope.  Calves  lay  in  the  sun  with  the  dreamy-eyed  cattle, 
and  up  in  the  orchards  whole  choruses  of  mating  birds  sent 
sprays  of  melody  on  the  flaming  air. 

Wondrous  activities  were  afoot.  Men  were  mending 
plows,  sharpening  tools  at  the  grindstone,  slufnng  back 
and  forth  in  the  mud,  carpenters  were  at  work  on  a  new 
house  in  a  reverberant  music  of  hammers  and  saws,  and 
the  pale  farm-women  were  out  with  tubs  of  vegetables 
on  the  doorsteps.  Kirby  saw  on  the  bright  green  of  one 
lawn  a  baby  in  a  wash-basket  flinging  up  little  hands  and 
feet  and  cooing  like  a  wild,  tiny  bird.  Doors  and  windows 
were  open. 

Then,  as  the  car  sped,  it  passed  a  young  girl,  who 
stepped  aside  with  the  lithe  grace  of  a  fawn  and,  glancing 
up,  met  Kirby's  eyes.  Her  own  were  a  sparkling  blue,  her 
hair  was  light  and  filmy.  She  was  the  Spring,  passing. 

All  at  once  he  thrilled  with  the  restless  sweetness  of  the 
world,  the  miracles  in  process  in  bough  and  bird's  heart 
and  the  new  green  earth.  He  thrilled;  he  heard  the 
birds  crying  melodiously  for  their  loves,  he  saw  the  chip 
munks  chasing  each  other,  and  the  dogs'  spring-running; 
and  he  knew  that  man,  too,  must  hunt  over  the  hills  and 
through  the  woodlands  for  his  mate. 

225 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

He  was  to  see  her;  i-that  was  the  supreme  miracle  among 
these  divine  splendors  of  the  day — he  was  to  see  her.  And 
he  knew,  at  last,  he  knew  the  sweet  glory  of  his  young 
blood,  the  sweet  glory  of  hers.  Unashamed,  he  desired 
her — to  press  her  to  his  heart;  to  go  with  her  to  the  edge 
of  the  world ;  to  spend  the  day  on  the  new  grass  and  under 
the  sky  watching  the  motions  of  her  body  and  the  sun-lit 
colors  of  her  eyes,  and  listening  to  the  light  music  of  her 
speech  and  laughter.  He  could  have  spent  hours  bab 
bling  with  her,  two  frisking  colts  in  the  pastures,  two  young 
thrushes  fluttering  in  the  green  trees,  two  young  eagles  in 
mid-skies.  It  was  the  primal  urge;  now  the  sun  clasped 
the  earth  in  his  skies  and  she  gave  birth  to  myriad  life; 
now  all  life  was  as  sun  and  earth  clasping;  now  man 
sought  woman,  with  the  ecstasy  of  divine  spring  hurling 
the  hunter  and  the  hunted.  Yes,  he  was  a  hunter,  she, 
the  hunted,  both  glorying  in  the  chase. 

Surely  this  fire  that  flowed  through  him  must  flow 
through  her.  For  a  while  his  unfaith  died;  he  knew; 
he  saw  her  soft  eyes  of  welcome,  soft  eyes  full  of  desiring 
dream,  arms  aching  for  him.  Had  they  not  been  mere 
man  and  woman  up  on  the  Giant?  Before  this  miracle 
wealth  and  the  world  fell  clattering,  leaving  them  re 
vealed  to  each  other,  equals,  and  more;  one  soul  divided 
and  yearning  to  reunite.  The  birds,  the  beasts,  did  not 
put  questions  as  to  respectability  and  propriety;  they 
felt  the  rapture  of  their  sex  and  followed — followed;  they 
met  and  built  their  nests  and  their  lairs.  Why  should 
human  beings,  the  divinest  of  animals,  not  do  likewise, 
letting  the  world  crumble  if  need  be? 

Their  blood  was  young  and  pure  and  ran  sweetly  for 
each  other's  sake;  surely  the  heavens  would  smile  on  such 
a  mating. 

And  as  the  wooing  bird  puts  on  fresh  plumage  in  the 
spring,  so  ardent  beauty  came  to  Kirby's  face — a  light 
in  his  eyes,  a  color  in  his  cheeks,  and  curves  of  strength 
in  arch  of  neck  and  poise  of  head.  Mud  splashed  under 

226 


THE    RIVAL 

the  running  wheels  and  a  spring-music  strewed  garlands 
on  the  gliding  car;  hum  of  honey-bees,  tinkle  of  sheep- 
bell,  pleasant  barnyard  noise  of  clucking  hens  and  downy 
chicks,  the  crash  of  a  boy  through  the  roadside  briers,  the 
jog-jog  of  a  country  cart  with  the  lazy  farmer  dreaming, 
and  the  push  of  the  plow  after  the  great-flanked  horse  and 
before  the  muscular  hired  man  up  the  gleaming  furrow. 

"Mary,  I  am  coming!"  was  the  meaning  of  all  this 
music,  and  it  seemed  then  that  all  nature  was  merely  the 
setting  for  the  love-story  of  man;  for  that  mating  that 
makes  of  Earth  the  dream,  the  vision,  and  the  wonder  of 
the  skies. 

The  car  went  through  the  gateway.  "In  a  few  mo 
ments  I  shall  see  her!"  beat  Kirby's  heart.  It  went  past 
ancient  woods,  the  old  women  trees  holding  little  green 
babies  in  their  arms.  "She  is  waiting!"  sang  his  pulses. 
It  sped  past  the  stables,  where  the  boys  were  airing  the 
nimble  trotters.  A  whirl  of  fire  began  to  spin  in  Kirby's 
breast,  up  and  up,  until  he  lost  breath,  and  flame  was  in  his 
eyes.  "Mary!  Mary!"  sang  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 

And  then  glancing  aside  he  saw  a  little  old  man  talking 
with  a  gardener  at  the  road-end  of  a  new-plowed  field. 
As  the  car  passed,  the  little  man  looked  up  and  nodded; 
Kirby  nodded  back.  It  was  Jordan  Watts. 

"He  loves  to  get  out  in  the  mud,"  said  the  chauffeur, 
"and  set  things  to  work.  And  he  knows  this  business 
from  the  ground  up." 

Kirby  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  exhaustion — like  a  sponge 
squeezed  dry — he  felt  weak.  What  had  Jordan  Watts  to 
do  with  the  spring  and  with  Mary?  All  the  glory  gave 
to  moroseness  and  irritation. 

"This  weather  is  enervating,"  he  thought.  "It  fools 
you;  puffs  you  up  and  then  sticks  a  pin  in." 

The  car  stopped  before  the  house,  the  door  opened  and 
Kirby  was  led  to  the  same  room.  The  house  felt  cool  and 
airy,  but  Kirby  ached  with  fatigue  and  unpleasant  desire. 
Mary  was  not  in  sight.  Up  in  his  room,  through  the  open 

16  227 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

windows,  came  the  little  winds,  and  he  saw  the  restless 
landscape.     He  lay  on  the  bed,  worn  out. 

"I  guess  I  need  some  sarsaparilla,"  was  his  immediate 
thought. 

Then  finally,  much  perturbed,  he  went  down  to  the  hall 
again.  Four  men  stood  at  the  open  door,  three  of  them 
smoking  cigarettes;  the  fourth  was  Jordan  Watts.  Kirby 
advanced,  and  before  he  came  into  earshot  he  saw  that 
Jordan  Watts  was  talking  terrifically,  pounding  fist  in 
hand,  and  he  noticed  again  the  sharp,  probing  eyes,  the 
big  bulky  forehead,  and  the  grim  mouth  only  half  hidden 
in  the  little  white  beard. 

Kirby  joined  the  group,  but  they  paid  no  attention  to 
him;  old  Watts  didn't  seem  to  see  him  at  all,  and  all  at 
once  he  felt  unnerved.  Should  he  step  aside  or  stay? 
Was  he  intruding,  or  would  it  be  insulting  to  leave  once  he 
had  joined  ?  So  he  trembled  back  and  forth  in  a  twilight 
zone,  enervated,  unhinged. 

."The  export  trade  this  year  has  surpassed  all  records. 
This  country  is  on  the  upward  curve  of  a  wave  of  prosperity 
that  will  put  it  first  among  the  commercial  nations.  Take 
steel,  for  instance,  our  basic  trade " 

Just  then  there  was  the  swish  of  skirts  in  the  cool  air 
and  three  women  came  along  the  hall,  and  Kirby,  glancing, 
saw  Mary  and  two  stout  ladies  who  seemed  stuffed  in 
their  corsets  like  the  luggage  of  a  large  family  in  a  small 
trunk.  He  had  visions  of  sweating  man  and  wife  and 
several  children  standing  and  jumping  on  the  lid  to  slam 
it  shut. 

Then  he  saw  Mary;  she  seemed  a  little  oppressed,  and 
did  not  recognize  him  in  the  faint  light.  He  was  struck 
by  the  fact  that  her  eyes  were  so  like  her  father's.  And 
then  looking  closer  she  seemed  strange  to  him;  it  was 
possibly  the  dress,  olive-colored  and  lacy,  which  did  not 
become  her  as  well  as  black.  He  had  a  flash  of  doubt 
about  his  love  for  her;  had  he  not  been  indulging  in 
smoky  visions? 

228 


THE    RIVAL 

Then  she  saw  him,  and  her  face  lit  up,  her  eyes  sparkled. 
He  felt  the  bite  of  something  wonderful  in  his  heart,  but 
it  died  as  soon  as  it  was  evoked,  and  he  began  to  go  through 
the  motions  and  trance  of  a  somnambulist.  For  Mary 
had  gone  up  to  the  men,  and  murmured  "Father,"  where 
upon  talk  ceased,  and  he  heard  her  calling  his  name: 

"You  remember  Mr.  Trask." 

Again  he  felt  the  limp  and  fishy  hand,  and  at  once  he 
heard  "Senator  Cullom,"  and  saw  a  stout,  big-headed 
man  with  side- whiskers  who  grunted  at  him;  "Rev.  Dr. 
Banks,"  a  lean  and  black  individual  with  a  smirking 
manner;  "Mr.  Henry  Pendleton."  At  this  point  Kirby 
had  an  unpleasant  shock.  He  felt  instinctively  that  he 
had  met  an  enemy. 

This  Henry  Pendleton  was  a  superb  young  man;  he 
might  have  posed  for  a  magazine  cover  or  passed  as  a 
matinee  idol ;  he  had  broad  shoulders,  he  was  built  like  a 
model  foot-ball  player,  muscular  and  graceful,  and  he  had 
a  mighty  head.  His  unusually  large  eyes  were  a  marine 
blue,  his  nose  was  straight,  his  lips  curled  richly,  and  his 
chin  was  large  and  rounded.  About  this  smooth-shaved, 
well-fed,  well-kept  animal  was  an  air  of  distinctive  success, 
of  easy  dominance,  of  brisk  power.  Beside  him  Kirby 
felt  messy  and  futile,  over-emotional,  under-developed. 
He  had  the  feeling  that  he  had  better  shun  this  man's 
society;  that  merely  standing  next  to  him  put  him  in  a 
bad  light,  and  that  Mary  could  not  help  but  notice  the 
difference. 

Then  he  saw  the  glance  that  this  fellow  gave  Mary — a 
glance  that  seemed  to  Kirby's  disordered  mind  to  say 
plainly,  "Hello!  my  woman!"  And  he  was  amazed  to 
feel  an  unreasoning  rage  possess  him,  a  desire  to  leap  at 
Pendleton 's  throat  and  roll  him  choking  around  the  floor. 

He  was  called  off,  however,  for  now  the  fat  ladies  joined 
the  group,  and  he  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Cullom  and 
Mrs.  Banks. 

Mary  now  murmured  to  him: 

229 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"Perhaps  we  can  run  off  for  a  little  spin  after  lunch." 

But  within  he  was  still  boiling  so  hotly  that  he  merely 
grinned  inanely,  and  before  he  could  speak  Pendleton 
took  Mary's  arm. 

"Let  me  take  you  in,  Miss  Watts !"  said  that  domineer 
ing  fellow,  and  off  Mary  went.  Kirby  could  have  torn 
out  his  own  hair;  what  an  ass  he  was!  He  had  had  the 
chance  to  do  the  same  thing,  and  now  this  easy  master 
of  women  had  gobbled  her  up. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  thought,  "women  like  just 
that  kind  of  man.  They  eat  out  of  the  hands  of  a  brutal 
master!" 

In  swept  the  group,  brushing  by  Kirby  as  if  he  were  a 
servant,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  wish  himself  anywhere 
but  here,  and  go  stumbling  over  Mrs.  Banks'  dress.  The 
trains  were  long  that  year. 

He  found  the  only  vacant  chair  between  the  reverend 
and  the  senator,  and  right  opposite  sat  Mary  and  his  dis 
gusting  rival.  Conversation  cleverly  slanted  away  from 
him  or  flew  past  over  the  table;  Mary  was  absorbed  by 
the  keen-voiced  young  corporation  lawyer,  and  Kirby  was 
left  desperately  alone  to  eat  the  sourest  and  bitterest  meal 
of  his  existence.  He  was  in  a  cold  sweat. 

Then  suddenly  his  hair  felt  like  jumping  off  his  head, 
for  the  Steel  Magnate,  who  had  seemed  oblivious  of  his 
dark  young  life,  now  crushed  through  him  with  a  spearing 
question: 

"Do  you  play  golf,  Mr.  Trask?" 

The  truth  was  out  before  he  knew  it,  before  he  had  time 
to  read  Mary's  appealing  glance. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

" Good !"  said  old  Watts.  "Then  we'll  get  out  early,  two 
pairs — I  and  the  Doctor,  you  and  Senator  Cullom." 

Kirby  froze;  he  was  caught  in  a  trap.  He  saw  his  rival 
smiling. 

"Then  I,"  said  Pendleton,  "shall  stay  with  the  ladies. 
I  don't  know  golf  from  hara-kiri." 

230 


THE    RIVAL 

"Ha!"  thought  Kirby,  "you  liar!  You  do  know  golf, 
but  you're  just  plotting  to  keep  Mary  from  me!"  The 
spin  up  to  the  top  of  the  Giant  was  gone,  and  the  visit 
ruined.  And  that  young  devil  would  so  completely  absorb 
her  that  he  couldn't  come  near.  Or  if  he  did  come  near 
the  contrast  would  be  vivid;  every  moment  of  this  visit 
was  making  him  smaller  and  pettier  in  Mary's  eyes.  He 
loathed  himself  for  coming,  and  for  the  whole  business. 
Served  him  right  for  meddling  with  a  millionaire's  daugh 
ter!  Of  course  he  did  not  admit  to  himself  that  such  a 
vulgar  thing  as  jealousy  was  gouging  him;  he  was  only 
for  meeting  Pendleton  in  personal  combat  and  blowing  his 
brilliant  brains  out. 

"Lord,  wouldn't  he  look  pretty,"  he  thought,  "kicking 
the  dust." 

Lunch  over,  he  found  his  way  to  Mary  barred  by  big 
shoulders,  and  next,  like  a  colt  that  is  broken  in  and  hate 
fully  ridden  by  its  master,  he  was  trotted  out  to  the  golf- 
links.  The  pairs  matched,  and  Kirby  and  the  senator 
led  off. 

There  was  still  perfection  in  the  rolling  green  slopes  and 
the  blue  dip  of  skies;  birds  were  still  busy  in  the  trees; 
gardeners  were  running  lawn-mowers  over  the  smooth 
sward;  but  all  this  loveliness  sounded  like  a  vain  tinkle 
in  Kirby's  ears.  He  played  poorly  and  slowly,  and  the 
stout  senator  was  vexed. 

"Take  it  easy — the  easy  stroke — it's  all  in  the  wrist, 
the  twist." 

"  It's  all  in  your  fat  belly,"  thought  Kirby,  and  caught 
the  earth  a  good  round  whack,  wishing  viciously  that  it 
was  the  senator's  red  ear. 

The  minister  and  Jordan  Watts  pressed  close  behind 
them,  and,  after  interminable  ages,  the  two  pairs  came 
together.  They  stood  about  waiting  for  Kirby  to  play. 
At  this  point  the  hole  was  near  a  tangled  woods. 

Kirby,  in  a  funk  before  these  watchers,  struck  viciously, 
and  the  ball  shot  up,  made  a  wild  curve,  and  fell  in  the 

231 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

woods.     It  would  take  possibly  twenty  minutes  to  find  it. 
He  turned  to  the  caddy. 

"Let's  have  another,"  he  muttered. 

Jordan  Watts  turned  to  him  sharply: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  look  for  that  ball?" 

"No,"  saidKirby. 

"Young  man,"  said  the  multi-millionaire,  "that  ball 
must  have  cost  seventy-five  cents." 

Kirby  felt  hot  in  the  head;  he  pierced  the  old  man  with 
his  gray  eyes. 

"Mr.  Watts,"  he  said,  coldly,  "when  I  have  as  much 
money  as  you  perhaps  I  can  afford  to  waste  the  time 
looking  for  a  golf -ball." 

The  senator  and  the  reverend  unexpectedly  smothered 
giggles,  but  old  Watts  looked  black;  such  extravagance 
was  bad  enough,  such  an  insult  was  bad  enough,  but,  after 
all,  it  wasn't  Kirby's  ball,  it  was  Watts'  ball.  Yet  some 
how  Kirby  had  shut  him  up. 

Whereupon  Kirby  made  the  shot  of  his  life,  playing  like 
an  expert  in  a  tournament.  And  he  thought  exultantly: 
"Now  I've  done  it — made  a  life  enemy  of  Mary's  father; 
this  improves  my  chances." 

And  as  he  and  the  senator  went  on,he  muttered,  savagely : 

"I'm  not  using  any  of  his  money,  and  I  needn't  be  nice 
to  him." 

The  senator  was  threatened  with  apoplexy. 

"You're  impulsive,  young  man,"  he  murmured.  But 
the  stout  man  enjoyed  the  rest  of  the  game  very  blithely ; 
he  was  framing  up  the  story  to  tell  at  the  club.  A  new 
Jordan  Watts  story! 

It  was  almost  dinner-time  when  the  game  was  over  and 
they  trudged  back  to  the  house.  The  women  had  gone 
to  their  rooms  to  dress,  but  young  Pendleton,  already 
in  his  evening  clothes,  sat  on  the  porch,  puffing  at  a  pipe, 
and  looking  insolent. 

"He  sits  here,"  thought  savage  Kirby,  "to  show  me 
he's  had  a  good  time." 

232 


THE    RIVAL 

The  men  tramped  up  to  their  rooms,  too.  Kirby  rushed 
his  dressing,  almost  crushing  his  stiff  shirt  in  the  effort 
to  button  on  the  collar;  then  tore  down-stairs  to  intercept 
Pendleton.  But  he  was  too  late — the  brute  had  Mary  in 
a  corner,  and  soon  led  her  to  dinner. 

At  the  table  he  was  a  nonentity  again,  and  the  way 
Jordan  Watts  ignored  him  was  perceptible.  At  one  point, 
just  as  he  was  seeing  red  and  breathing  blood  because 
Mary  laughed  at  one  of  Pendleton's  jokes,  he  heard  these 
words  of  wisdom  from  the  Steel  Magnate: 

"But  I  say  that  the  young  man  of  this  time  has  just  as 
many  chances  as  I  did — that  is,  if  he  has  big  vision,  the 
direct  drive,  unfaltering  courage,  and — is  thrifty.  Thrift ! 
Save  your  pennies  and  they  grow  to  dollars!  I  myself 
hesitate  to  this  day  to  invest  in  a  new  hat." 

"Thanks  for  the  sermon,"  thought  Kirby,  "you damned 
old  miser.  And  I  bet  you  have  so  much  money  you  can't 
count  it.  Golf -balls!  As  for  Pendleton,  some  day  I'll 
mash  him  to  a  pulp.  There  he  goes  again!" 

They  trooped  out  to  the  fire-lit  hall,  Mary  and  Pendle 
ton  just  behind  him.  Then  an  amazing  thing  happened — 
he  heard  Mary's  incisive  voice: 

"Just  pardon  me,  Mr.  Pendleton,  I  want  to  see  Mr. 
Trask  a  moment." 

"Certainly,"  said  Pendleton,  in  a  tone  that  meant  (to 
Kirby)  "Run  off  and  amuse  yourself  with  the  pretty 
thing;  I  can  spare  you  a  moment." 

But  what  divine  courage,  divine  womanliness.  She 
confronted  him: 

"So,"  she  said,  ruefully,  "our  ride  was  spoiled." 

"Yes,"  he  smiled,  childishly  happy,  a  rush  of  dreamy 
bliss  pouring  through  him.  ' '  And  it  was  my  fault.  I  hate 
golf." 

"  Oh,  these  people !"  said  Mary.  "  But  I  know.  We  can 
take  a  row  together — now." 

And  she  cleverly  led  the  company  out  into  the  cool 
night,  and  along  the  shadowy  walks.  She  and  Kirby 

233 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

walked  in  advance;  and  she  spoke  like  an  eager  con 
spirator. 

"You'll  have  to  do  it  quick  to  escape  them.  I'll  jump 
in,  you  give  the  boat  a  push,  and  off  we'll  go." 

This  was  heavenly;  he  throbbed  with  a  sudden  rapture, 
and  when  they  came  to  the  lake  and  found,  on  the  dim, 
pebbly  shore  the  light  Canadian  skiff,  Mary  leaped  in,  he 
gave  it  a  shove,  stepped  over  the  stern  and  almost  foun 
dered  it  as  it  hit  the  water  and  swam  out. 

Mary  laughed  excitedly;  he  stepped  past  her  and  took 
the  oars,  fitted  them,  and  pulled  hard.  They  faced  each 
other. 

"Free!"  cried  Mary.  "Free  at  last!  The  villains  are 
foiled!" 

It  was  exactly  as  if  they  were  eloping  together. 

The  stars  were  restless  and  lustrous  in  the  serene  skies, 
as  if  their  glistening  hearts  were  white  with  the  mating- 
passion,  and  over  the  dark  bulk  of  the  trees  lay  a  sliver 
of  new  moon.  Beneath  this  beauty,  the  waters,  girdled 
with  woods,  were  so  tranquil  that  moon  and  stars  gave 
them  heavenly  depth;  they  heard  the  liquid  gush 
around  the  prow,  the  cool  drip  of  the  oars,  the  straining 
of  the  oar-locks,  and  there  glided  past  a  pair  of  ducks,  one 
swimming  after  the  other. 

It  was  a  night  in  Spring;  one  could  almost  hear  buds 
opening  and  the  forest  floor  heaving  before  the  push  of 
life;  and  from  those  stars  down  through  the  Earth  to  the 
stars  beneath  it  everything  seemed  touched  with  throbbing 
life.  The  whole  universe  was  drenched  with  this  divine 
awakening — the  call  of  the  Spring,  the  call  of  love. 

Kirby  glanced  up.  In  the  faint  dark  she  sat  there  like 
a  sweet  shadow  of  rounded  shoulders  and  upturned  face. 
He  saw  the  tremulous  outline  of  her  hair,  little  wisps 
floating.  He  seemed  to  hear  her  deep  breath.  And  again 
he  felt  that  they  had  left  the  world,  that  they  were  man 
and  woman — the  pair  in  Eden,  and  yet  with  a  difference. 
Life  had  become  intenser;  they  were  enfolded  in  it; 

234 


THE    RIVAL 

their  hearts  throbbed  exquisitely  with  the  throb  of  the 
Earth  and  the  trembling  of  the  stars.  Ecstasy  came  to 
him;  it  seemed  as  if  they  must  rush  together  like  risen 
Spring  waters  dashing  down  rocks.  He  wanted  to  sing  to 
her,  and  to  hear  her  woman's  voice  echoing  back  music 
under  the  living  night.  The  great  moment  was  at  hand; 
the  moment  he  had  awaited  through  all  the  winter;  the 
moment  denied  him  this  afternoon.  She  had  come  back 
to  him  from  the  remote  West,  their  young  blood  was  in 
tune,  and  in  the  symphony  of  the  Spring  they  were  struck 
together  like  a  final  melting  chord  of  music. 

He  rested  on  the  oars,  leaning  forward.  His  voice 
trembled : 

" This  is  something  like  the  Giant,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

She,  too,  leaned  forward,  speaking  with  trembling 
wistfulness : 

"What  a  night  that  was.  And  yet  it  seems  only 
yesterday." 

He  grew  bold;  he  had  come  like  a  hunter  over  the  hills. 
And  then,  like  mud  falling,  came  a  voice: 

"Mary!    Mary!" 

"That's  father,"  she  said.     "Shall  I  answer?" 

"No,"  he  commanded. 

"  Mary !' '     The  voice  pulsed  harsh.'i 

This  was  tragic;   this  was  agonizing. 

"Aren't  you  in  that  boat  out  there?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"We've  been  looking  for  you." 

"I'm  coming." 

Kirby  rowed  back  to  shore,  Mary  was  gobbled  up,  and 
he  trod  after,  the  blackest  heart  in  the  night. 

The  next  afternoon,  after  a  fierce  repetition  of  Pendleton, 
Pendleton,  and  Pendleton,  Kirby  left.  Pendleton  very 
gallantly  came  with  Mary  to  say  good-by. 

All  he  had  then  was  her  cloudy,  wistful  gaze  as  the  car 
bore  him  away  in  a  weather  of  dust  and  wind  and  clouds. 

It  was  as  if  winter  were  returning.  Spring  lay  dead. 
235 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

And  Kirby  cursed  the  fates  that  had  given  him  human 
birth.  He  felt  that  he  was  disillusioned — that  between 
Jordan  Watts,  Pendleton,  wealth,  position,  and  society  he 
was  a  mere  outcast. 

"Fool  to  aim  so  high.  Yes,"  he  told  himself,  "I'm  the 
original  skyrocket." 

And  he  resolved  to  live  down  this  ruining  passion. 


XXII 

QUICKSANDS 

FOR  a  little  while,  whenever  the  days  of  Spring  had 
fresh  and  restless  beauty,  Kirby  had  the  strange 
feeling  of  the  world  passing,  a  golden  cloud  fading,  and  all 
the  lovers  on  Earth  fading  with  it.  A  light  stole  from  his 
heart  and  transformed  all  things,  touching  them  with  a 
dying  radiance.  In  that  light  he  saw  the  swift  faces  of 
the  finger-busy  girls  at  the  long  tables,  or  the  emergence 
and  vanishing  gleam  where  the  shadowy  presses  clanked 
and  spewed  their  shining  sheets,  or  the  rush  and  smoky 
flash  of  the  locomotive — the  green  woods,  the  blue  skies, 
the  busy  life.  Surely  some  Aladdin  in  a  deep  sunset- 
wondrous  gorge  of  the  Arabian  Nights  had  rubbed  his 
lamp,  and  called  into  being  this  world  of  magic  and  him 
and  this  shadow-play  of  business  and  love. 

Business  and  love !  What  else  was  there  in  this  dream 
of  being  born  and  of  dying? 

And  sometimes  when  he  saw  J.  J  these  days,  noising 
his  way  through  the  visionary  world  like  a  meaningless 
dusty  storm,  he  thought  that  J.  J.  was  an  Aladdin  him 
self.  For  where  men  were  idle  and  the  ground  barren, 
freight-trains  empty  and  farms  and  slums  untouched  by 
brilliant  dream,  this  bulky  creature  had  come  along  and 
rubbed  that  invisible  lamp — his  brain — and  at  once  the 
factories  smoked,  men  labored,  artists  and  authors  brought 
gifts,  the  trains  were  filled,  and  bright  imaginings  entered 
in  remote  doorways.  He  had  evoked  a  cloud-metropolis; 
he  had  performed  a  modern  miracle.  The  wires  sang  of 

237 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

him,  the  wheels  bore  his  dreams,  the  newsman  scattered 
his  enchantments,  marriages  were  made  because  of  him, 
children  were  born,  men  raised  among  the  mighty  or  sent 
down  among  the  dead.  Or  so  it  seemed  to  Kirby. 

But  the  lamp  was  losing  its  power.  Though  J.  J. 
rubbed  and  rubbed,  the  cloud-metropolis  faded  from 
around  him  in  the  last  of  the  light,  the  turrets  crumbled, 
the  faces  dimmed,  the  dreams  were  scattered  on  the  wind. 
The  amazed  magician  rubbed  desperately,  cried  to  the 
heavens;  he  hadtthought  he  was  a  god,  but  he  was  merely 
one  of  these  children  that  wawl  when  they  come  hither 
and  pass  into  darkness. 

And  Kirby  was  like  a  shining  soap-bubble  blown  from 
the  lips  of  youth  and  floating  upward  through  that  cloud 
and  to  the  top,  only  to  vanish  in  the  gathering  night. 

It  was  unbelievable,  but  it  was  true.  It  was  the  way 
of  all  things  human.  Here  was  an  American  civilization 
surging  tempestuously  on  a  breast  of  earth  between  two 
oceans,  and  out  of  the  fierce  grind  of  drudges  arose  these 
dreamers  and  schemers  building  their  worlds  of  men;  the 
waves  rose  from  the  sea,  flashed  and  foamed  in  the  sun, 
and  sank  back  to  the  engulfing  deeps  again.  Did  they 
rise  of  themselves  or  did  the  sea  lift  them? 

If,  then,  the  brief  moment  in  the  sun  held  not  the  love 
of  man  and  woman,  what  was  it  worth  ?  Those  bluebirds 
out  there  knew,  those  butterflies  knew,  and  boy  and  girl 
walking  in  the  fields  knew. 

But  these  spasms  of  unreality  passed  with  languid 
weather;  when  rain  fell,  or  dust  rose,  Kirby  felt  the  harsh 
ness  and  red  bitterness  of  the  solid  world. 

J.  J.  called  a  meeting  of  the  staff  in  his  office  and  spoke, 
almost  in  tears: 

"By  heavens,  we  must  make  a  last  desperate  rally. 
Do  you  want  to  see  the  whole  thing  go?  I  tell  you,  you 
don't  know  how  bad  things  are.  Where's  the  money  to 
come  from?  There's  only  the  hope  of  every  one  of  us 
sweating  our  blood — cheapening  the  magazine,  increasing 

238 


QUICKSANDS 

circulation,  and  hustling  for  ads.     We  must  retrench, 
drop  every  needless  expense,  every  needless  employee." 

So  two  editors  were  dropped,  and  men  and  women 
struck  out  here  and  there  all  through  the  place.  Much 
of  this  work  of  economy  and  campaigning  fell  to  Kirby. 
He  had  to  overhaul  each  department,  cut  out  waste, 
systematize,  stint.  He  had  to  evolve  new  publicity 
schemes,  he  had  to  fight  off  creditors.  It  was  his  sugges 
tion  that  closed  the  other  factory  and  sent  to  the  scrap- 
heap  battery  cars  that  refused  to  run^and  air-ships  that 
refused  to  fly. 

Worst  of  all,  the  new  head  of  the  subscription  depart 
ment,  a  fat  Falstaffian  fellow  named  Rouse,  showed  him 
self  jovially  incompetent.  He  dramatized  his  irksome 
job  by  making  the  girls  giggle,  drawing  cartoons  on  pad- 
paper,  and  devising  pleasant  advertisements,  such  as, 
"Can't  You  Sleep?  Try  Harrington's." 

Hence  Kirby  had  to  shoulder  much  of  the  fat  man's 
work,  and  he  was  swamped  with  crowding  occupations. 
Lunch-time  found  him  smoking,  dictating,  rushing  around ; 
supper  was  a  mere  bite,  and  then  back  to  his  desk  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  under  the  electric  drop-light  till  the  mid 
night  train  shrilled  in  his  brain,  and  he  looked  up  at  the 
strange  walls  and  felt  the  ghostly  emptiness  of  the  black 
building.  Then  he  would  slip  his  feet  along  to  the  stairs, 
hurry  down,  and  out  into  the  intense  and  starless  dark. 

In  bed  he  lay  awake  with  cold,  clammy  feet  and  beating 
brain,  or  slept  with  dreams  of  dancing  arithmetic  and 
jumble  of  systems. 

He  looked  pitiable  these  days — a  bright-eyed  wreck, 
sometimes  with  growth  of  beard  on  his  face  and  clothes 
unbrushed.  He  was  forced  into  J.  J.'s  last  desperate 
rally,  and  the  worst  of  the  pressure  came  on  him. 

This  in  a  way  was  lucky,  however.  It  gave  neither  the 
time  nor  energy  to  brood  over  Mary.  He  was  a  mere 
protoplasmic  machine,  turning  out  his  day's  work,  and 
then  snatching  sleep  and  food  for  a  new  stretch  of  toil. 

239 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

It  was  like  Napoleon's  retreat  from  Moscow;  a  routed 
army  beating  back  terrifically  to  escape.  And  Kirby  was 
one  of  the  haggard  captains,  hustling  his  men. 

Then  a  change  came  for  the  worse.  Kirby,  now  no 
longer  secretary,  was  entirely  detached  from  J.  J.  and  saw 
little  of  him.  Naturally  he  ceased  gradually  to  be  in  the 
counsels  of  the  great  man.  It  was  an  eventuality  he  had 
not  figured  on,  the  effect  of  such  a  separation  on  J.  J. 

And  next,  Loughlin,  who  had  been  transferred  from  the 
factory  to  the  house,  was  discharged  and  a  new  secretary 
secured.  At  first  Kirby  laughed  secretly  over  this  new 
man,  and  from  his  haughty  heights  looked  down  with  dis 
gust,  almost  hatred.  For  Cropsey  was  a  stumpy,  sawed- 
off  fellow,  stout,  dwarfish,  lame,  who  dressed  fastidiously, 
dangled  a  heavy  gold  watch-chain,  flashed  rings  on  his 
reddish  fingers,  and  was  barbered  to  perfection.  He  had 
a  mustache  at  which  he  loved  to  pull.  All  this  was  a  red 
rag  to  bullish  Kirby;  but,  monstrous  and  culminating 
outrage,  the  man  stank.  It  was  something  musky, 
Eastern,  clinging. 

"And  it  must  be  something  cheap,"  thought  Kirby. 
"Greases  his  hair,  slops  his  handkerchief,  anoints  his 
vest,  drinks  it." 

One  could  tell  that  he  was  coming  before  he  hove  into 
sight — the  invisible  advance  agent  preceded  him.  And  so 
this  bright  smell  went  gaily  wandering  up  and  down  the 
factory,  and  Kirby  did  not  see  the  dramatic  grandeur  of  it. 
It  was  man  triumphing  over  the  elements;  for  out  of  his 
fierce  infirmities,  his  shriveled  legs  and  bended  back, 
Cropsey  wrought  with  a  few  drops  of  essence  a  victory 
of  unspoiled  and  lush  laughter,  rushing  activity,  and  per 
fect  self-assurance.  It  was  as  if  he  said: 

"You  can't  notice  me  plain,  so  I've  discovered  the  per 
fume  that  makes  a  dwarf  a  giant,  whereby  I  stink  you  all 
down." 

Sprinkled  with  greatness,  he  went  then,  odious,  odorous, 
and  obvious.  He  escaped  littleness  through  a  smell. 

240 


QUICKSANDS 

The  girls  called  him  "Mr.  Peewee,"  after  a  cartoon 
character  in  the  Sunday  papers.  Kirby  called  him  worse 
names  than  that. 

"But  he  won't  last  a  week,"  thought  Kirby.  "  J.  J. 
can't  stand  it." 

What  was  his  amazement,  then,  to  hear  rumors  that 
Cropsey  was  becoming  a  favorite. 

"Kirby,"  said  honest  Brent,  " Cropsey 's  the  next  one." 

Kirby  could  not  believe  it ;  it  meant  that  he  was  follow 
ing  the  long  line  downward;  another  Boyd;  another 
favorite  on  the  wane.  That  his  success  implied  immediate 
failure  was  monstrous;  he  fought  against  the  idea.  But 
the  proofs  grew  on  him. 

First  came  the  typed  statement  that  hereafter  all 
orders  would  come  through  Cropsey,  and  all  communica 
tions  for  J.  J.  ascend  by  Cropsey;  then  Cropsey  came 
around  to  investigate  Kirby's  office. 

The  bitterness  of  this  was  ghastly.  Not  so  long  ago 
Kirby  had  exulted  in  watching  men  broken;  it  was  so 
good  to  be  strong,  to  use  power,  to  trample.  Now  he 
suddenly  felt  stripped  of  authority  and  had  to  endure  what 
he  had  made  others  endure. 

Cropsey  seemed  to  delight  in  showing  Kirby  the  new 
status.  He  would  break  into  the  room,  smell  and  all, 
sit  on  Kirby's  desk,  lean,  lay  his  hand  on  the  quivering 
Business  Manager,  poke  him  in  the  ribs,  laugh  in  his  face. 

"Say,  J.  J.'s  great,  eh?  The  old  devil!  Did  you  ever 
get  thick  with  him,  like  me?  Think  of  it — he 'likes  me; 
I'm  his  alter  ego,  or  vice  versa.  Latin's  Greek  to  me. 
Give  me  the  sly  kind;  J.  J.'s  sly;  you  ain't  an  idea  how  he 
spies  on  the  bunch  of  you.  I'm  his  right  eye.  Ha!  ha! 
I'm  watching  you!" 

"Not  interested,"  said  Kirby,  coldly,  "and  I'm  a  bit 
busy." 

Cropsey  winked. 

"Don't  bluff,  Trask.  You  ought  to  see  the  report  I 
made  on  you.  J.  J.  saw  little  red  devils." 

241 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Kirby  rose. 

"You'd  better  cut  that  short,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  come  now,  come  now!"  laughed  Cropsey.  "All's 
fun  between  friends.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  of  my  prospects  ? 
Well,  I've  got  a  widow  in  Weehawken  stuck  on  me;  I'm 
her  little  man,  and  she's  got  a  bunch  of  the  coin.  Let  J.  J. 
smash,  let  the  magazine  blow  up,  there's  a  big  woman  to 
pull  me  out  of  the  wreck.  How  about  you,  Trask? 
What'll  you  do  if  you're  out  in  the  cold?" 

He  was  out  in  the  cold  already.  He  raged  over  the 
fact;  he  stormed  through  his  heavy  work.  How  could 
J.  J.  be  such  an  ingrate;  how  forget  so  cruelly?  And, 
bitterest  of  all,  his  enemies,  hitherto  subdued  by  fear,  now 
saw  him  stripped  of  power  and  immediately  joined  in  the 
fun  of  kicking  the  man  who  was  going  down.  Any  one 
could  defy  him  now,  for  what  strength  had  he  save  the 
power  of  his  voice?  And  with  this  feeling  of  breakage 
within  and  without  him,  how  could  he  muster  up  enough 
self-confidence  to  command  others? 

He  could  of  course  leave,  but  to  leave  in  disfavor  was 
practically  to  be  blacklisted,  to  find  all  doors  shut.  He 
could  only  get  some  poor  job  as  a  stenographer,  and  join 
the  ever-present  and  bright  failures  at  Atwood's.  It  is 
in  the  nature  of  man,  too,  to  disbelieve  in  a  sudden  change 
of  fortune  for  the  worse.  Kirby  desperately  clung  to  the 
idea  that  this  was  a  passing  phase,  that  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day  conditions  would  revert.  Cropsey  might  be 
forced  out,  or  the  business,  pulling  through  by  some  swift 
miracle,  might  turn  successful  and  soften  J.  J. 

But  if  Kirby  remained,  if  he  fought  it  out  to  the  last 
ditch — and  his  bull-headedness  made  him  blindly  go  on 
and  on  unflinching — then  he  must  endure  the  worst.  A 
man  in  power  can  resist  insult,  calumny,  degradation;  a 
man  out  of  power  must  uncomplainingly  receive  the  kicks. 
To  complain  meant  to  be  dropped  altogether.  And  now 
that  his  grip  was  being  loosened/his  position,  his  waning 
authority  seemed  very  sweet  to  him.  To  tremble  with 

242 


fear,  to  feel  punishment,  to  know  the  heart-break  and  self- 
depreciation  of  being  trampled  on  began  to  be  Kirby's 
portion,  and  his  whole  nature  cried  out  on  the  injustice 
and  savagery  of  the  world.  It  was  a  snarl  and  clawing  of 
wolves;  let  but  the  strongest  fall  and  the  whole  pack 
exultantly  devoured  him.  Kirby  was  sick  of  life,  and 
yet  never  had  life  seemed  so  fatally  sweet. 

And  so  he  had  fits  of  his  old  shyness  and  speechlessness; 
he  wanted  somewhere  to  lay  his  head,  to  escape  this 
gathering  disgrace.  Up  like  a  skyrocket,  down  like  a 
stick — how  bitter  this  phrase  had  become  to  him.  He 
remembered  his  experience  with  the  Army  of  the  Unem 
ployed,  and  he  felt  his  kinship  to  those  souls  that  gnashed 
teeth,  and  wailed,  and  begged  in  the  outer  darkness.  This, 
then,  was  life — the  brief  glory  of  a  few,  the  cry  of  the 
multitude.  And  he  had  had  his  brief  glory  and  now  they 
were  beating  his  head  down  in  the  bitter  floods.  Surely 
some  devil,  some  divine  vivisector,  had  created  the  world. 
;  Then  one  morning  the  office-boy  came  in  and  said: 

"  J.  J.  wants  to  see  yer  at  once." 

Kirby  went  out;  he  saw  the  rest  of  the  staff  marching 
grimly  up  the  gravel  path,  and  suddenly  he  remembered 
his  first  day  with  J.  J.  and  the  seven  men  he  had  con 
sidered  mere  dogs.  It  was  ironical  to  join  this  procession 
of  mongrels,  and  to  have  in  his  heart  the  throbbing  fear 
of  the  others.  He  felt  positively  sick;  he  glimpsed  the 
notion  that  this  morning  would  publicly  symbolize  his 
broken  power. 

The  day  was  sticky  and  warm,  unpleasantly  humid, 
and  a  glare  of  light  gushed  through  the  searching  atmos 
phere;  the  railroad  tracks  shimmered  with  heat,  the  grass 
swarmed  with  buzzing  insects,  mosquitoes  sang  in  his 
ears,  and  he  felt  itchy  all  over. 

Up  the  cool  stairs  the  staff  climbed  silently,  Kirby  with 
them.  Then  they  knocked  on  the  door.  Kirby's  heart 
began  to  pound,  his  temples  to  throb. 

"Come,"  cried  J.  J.  They  entered.  Cropsey  was  sit- 
17  243 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

ting  facing  them,  grinning  maliciously,  and  Kirby  won 
dered  how  often  the  staff  had  seen  him  (Kirby)  doing  the 
same  thing  and  longed  to  strangle  him  just  as  he  longed 
to  strangle  Mr.  Peewee. 

And  just  as  on  that  first  morning,  J.  J.  was  bent  over 
reports,  muttering.  The  staff  made  the  old  semicircle 
behind  their  master  and  stood,  silent.  Through  the  open 
window  came  the  noise  of  a  passing  train  and  the  lazy 
hum  of  flies  and  the  shrilling  of  crickets. 

Then  Kirby  seemed  to  be  an  actor  in  an  old  dream, 
something  that  had  happened  ages  before. 

"Is  this  Trask's  report?"  thundered  J.  J. 

Kirby  craned  his  neck. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured. 

J.  J.  swiveled  round,  his  eyes  flashing  insanely,  flecks 
of  saliva  on  his  lips. 

"Now  you  young  son-of-a-gun,"  he  roared,  "you 
whirligig  of  slush,  is  this  what  you  give  me  after  all  my 
work  with  you?  Pick  that  up!" 

The  report  lay  on  the  floor,  and  Kirby  hesitated.  The 
world  danced  round  him,  a  swirl  of  red;  a  lunatic  rage 
tore  through  his  brain;  he  was  ripe  for  murder  at  that 
instant.  J.  J.  curse  him?  He,  too,  one  of  these  dogs? 

"Pick  that  up!"  shouted  J.  J. 

A  long  moment  passed.  Then  Kirby  turned  and  walked 
from  the  room. 

By  that  act  he  narrowly  saved  himself  from  a  complete 
breakdown;  yet  he  felt  that  he  had  somehow  bent  if  not 
surrendered  his  erect  spirit;  he  was  broken;  he  was 
trampled.  Publicly,  too.  He  knew  it,  but  what  could 
he  do  ?  One  word  would  have  lost  him  his  position.  And 
to  lose  that  now  seemed  equivalent  to  suicide.  Irony  of 
life!  What  a  difference  to  sit  in  the  secretary's  chair, 
feeling  the  tiger-joy  of  seeing  men  stepped  upon,  and  to 
stand  here,  in  the  same  room,  in  the  same  drama,  and  be 
one  of  the  trampled ! 

And  Cropsey  had  grinned  maliciously. 

244 


QUICKSANDS 

In  this  way,  then,  Kirby  went  up,  went  down.  Down, 
but  not  out  yet.  No.  Now  he  would  fight  on,  just  as 
his  predecessors  had  done,  to  the  last  gasp.  It  was,  of 
course,  merely  because  he  was  being  forced  out  that  this 
position  began  to  loom  so  large,  to  be  so  sweet  to  him. 
But  large  and  sweet  it  was,  and  to  endure  curses,  to  be 
long  to  the  herd  that  was  profanely  used,  seemed  less 
important  than  once  it  was.  He  had  not  picked  up  the 
report,  but  nevertheless  he  had  not  resigned  his  position. 

And  now  in  these  mid-days  of  May,  Mary  and  the  Giant 
and  high  finance  seemed  far  away  and  unreal.  Kirby 
was  making  a  fight  for  his  life;  it  was  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  even  more  elemental  than  that  of  sex. 


XXIII 

PENDLETON 

IT  was  the  next  morning  that  Kirby  received  a  note 
from  Mary. 

DEAR  MR.  TRASK, — We  must  try  once  more.  Would  this 
week-end  do?  I  am  going  to  spend  a  week  at  Cameron  Bay, 
Maine.  Maine  is  wonderful  in  June,  and  there  are  cliffs  along 
the  sea. 

It  is  a  long  journey,  but  possibly  you  can  come. 

Faithfully,  M.  W. 

And  Kirby,  reading  this,  was  amazed  that  he  had  ever 
thought  love  so  important.  Engrossed  in  his  work,  the 
interference  of  a  woman  was  annoying;  the  interference 
of  Mary  was  almost  tragic.  Easy  enough  for  her  to  run 
him  about  the  country,  but  to  be  away  four  days  was 
physically  impossible;  and  even  if  he  were  free  to  go  it 
would  only  deepen  his  troubles.  He  was  in  no  mood  for 
love-making ;  he  was  nervous  and  broken ;  he  would  only 
be  a  bother  to  have  around;  he  could  not  brook  meeting 
any  more  Pendletons,  and,  besides,  he  had  given  up  Mary. 
He  had  no  more  right  to  aspire  to  her  than  as  if  he  had 
tuberculosis  or  insanity.  Completely  disillusioned,  fight 
ing  for  his  very  existence,  he  stared  the  brute  facts  in  the 
face,  and  he  concluded  that  the  matter  must  end.  He  was, 
in  truth,  in  a  neurotic  condition,  and  saw  life  black. 

So  he  wrote: 

MY  DEAR  Miss  WATTS, — It  is  kind  of  you  to  invite  me.  I 
am  sorry  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  come. 

Yours  sincerely,  KIRBY  TRASK. 

246 


PENDLETON 

He  little  knew,  of  course,  where  this  javelin,  hurled  in 
the  dark,  was  going  to  land;  nor  did  he  in  any  way  guess 
what  had  prompted  Mary's  letter. 

She  had  given  the  New  York  address,  and  it  was  here, 
for  the  time  being,  that  she  was  living.  Her  father  was 
here,  too.  Both  were  exceedingly  busy. 

Jordan  Watts  was  in  his  down-town  office  most  of  the 
day.  He  was  just  engaged  in  the  joyous  occupation  of 
creating  rivalries  and  jealousies  among  underlings,  man 
agers,  and  partners  in  New  York,  Pittsburgh,  and  Chicago; 
by  such  a  method  he  divided  the  powers  of  the  business 
into  fractions  which  he  could  easily  control;  they  never 
could  coalesce  against  his  authority.  Besides,  every  few 
months,  after  a  period  of  absence,  he  reveled  in  checking 
up  the  work  of  each  department  and  then  writing  post 
cards  brutally  slashing  his  people  right  and  left. 

"Let  'em  know  the  Big  Eye  is  on  them,"  he  said. 

That,  however,  was  not  the  major  part  of  his  day's  work. 
He  was  financing  new  enterprises  through  Wall  Street 
combinations,  and  he  was  likewise  involved  in  a  campaign 
for  fame  and  in  politico-social  schemes  for  greater  power. 
So  he  dashed  off  articles  and  lectures  and  after-dinner 
speeches  and  he  attended  dinners  and  went  to  opera  and 
concert  and  meeting,  to  foregather  with  all  the  legislators, 
judges,  scientists,  and  other  outstanding  people  that  he 
could,  thereby  strengthening  his  grasp. 

Mary  was  equally  busy;  they  were  as  obverse  and  re 
verse  sides  of  the  same  coin. 

"I  make,"  said  old  Watts;  "she  spends." 

To  do  this  wisely  she  had  a  private  secretary,  a  woman 
who  at  one  time  had  worked  for  the  Charity  Organization 
Society.  Daily  came  hundreds  of  begging  letters  from 
societies,  schools,  universities,  libraries,  and  individuals; 
daily  there  were  a  dozen  projects  to  consider.  And,  be 
sides,  Mary  worked  in  a  Settlement;  went  down  several 
times  a  week  and  managed  a  club  of  girls,  and  was  also 
on  the  board  of  trustees.  Down  there  she  was  slightly 

247 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

feared,  for  she  asked  piercing  questions,  and  drew  sharp 
conclusions  much  in  the  manner  of  her  father. 

Then,  in  a  way,  she  supervised  the  house,  checked  up 
accounts,  O.K.'d  large  orders.  In  addition,  there  was 
often  shopping  to  do. 

But  what  she  liked  least  and  had  to  submit  to  most  was 
a  ceaseless  round  of  social  engagements — this  and  that 
dinner  or  dance,  theater-party  or  public  meeting,  and  she 
had  a  number  of  young  women  friends  for  afternoon  calls 
and  outings. 

Thinking  back,  she  could  not  remember  a  time  when 
she  had  not  met  almost  daily  people  of  power  or  position. 
As  a  girl  she  remembered  sitting  at  table,  at  home, 
on  shipboard,  in  private  car,  in  Europe  or  New  York  or 
the  West,  with  all  sorts  of  imposing  personalities.  And 
her  father  was  constantly  bringing  a  fresh  supply.  He 
had  an  eye  out  for  rising  and  risen  men  in  all  walks  of  life, 
pounced  upon  them,  and  brought^them  home  in  his  jaws. 

She  was  so  used  to  it  that  it  was  as  natural  to  her  as 
dressing  in  the  morning,  and  her  father  was  such  an  excel 
lent  talker  that  she  had  early  disposed  of  any  native 
constraint.  The  process  left  her  quite  natural,  unspoilt; 
she  had  never  ceased  being  her  simple  and  sincere  self. 
In  fact,  she  had  a  reputation  for  saying  unconventional 
things,  for  talking  with  uncomfortable  directness,  for 
being  unpleasantly  honest. 

This  social  intercourse  brought  one  excellent  result — 
she  got  to  know  men ;  she  could  size  and  assort  them  with 
swift  certainty;  they  could  not  baffle  her.  And  time  and 
again  she  sent  some  suitor  about  his  business. 

Naturally  she  was  the  bright  star  for  the  gilded  and  half- 
gilded  or  half-tarnished  youth  of  America.  Foreigners, 
too,  approached  her,  many  via  her  father.  Climbers,  ad 
venturers,  successful  men  of  every  stamp  buzzed  about 
her.  As  one  of  Pendleton's  friends  put  it  to  that  wealthy 
corporation  lawyer : 

"She's  the  best  match  in  America." 

248 


PENDLETON 

The  result  of  this  ferocious  cloud  of  males  ascending 
the  heavens  toward  their  queen  bee  was  that  at  times  old 
Watts  believed  that  Mary  would  never  marry.  She  was 
twenty-six  and  had  turned  down  a  regiment  already. 

"You're  getting,"  said  her  father,  "so  that  a  man  makes 
you  suspicious." 

She  laughed;  but  there  was  truth  in  this.  She  suspected 
a  crude  motivation  and  was  wary.  Besides,  she  almost 
never  met  a  man  who  appealed  to  her  imagination,  none 
"with  a  star  on  his  forehead,"  as  she  had  said  of  Coleridge. 
The  neurasthenic  young  idlers  who  had  valets  dress  them 
in  the  morning,  and  spent  money  so  fast  that  it  flowed 
after  them  like  a  comet's  tail,  and  who,  weary  of  existing 
methods  of  dissipating,  invented  new  orgies,  landing 
finally  in  the  insane  asylum  or  the  sanatorium,  hardly 
struck  her  as  coming  up  to  any  honest  ideal. 

Neither  was  she  taken  up  with  "hard-headed  business 
men."  She  was  one  herself,  and  knew  the  limitations  of 
the  type.  Nor  did  luscious  senators  and  amiable  judges 
excite  her;  neither  was  she  stirred  by  the  author  of  the  last 
novel  that  sold  two  hundred  thousand  copies. 

Kirby  stood  out  from  this  masculine  lock-step  like  a 
camp-fire  on  the  side  of  a  mountain.  His  first  coming, 
the  poor  lad,  shy  and  passionately  speechless,  the  awkward 
ness  and  sudden  splendid  temper,  was  remembered.  Even 
then  she  divined  in  him  a  thousand  magic  possibilities. 
He  came,  she  felt,  near  to  being  a  genius,  and  on  the 
mountain-top  she  thought  of  Kirby  as  much  as  of  her 
father  when  she  quoted: 

Dreamer  devout  by  vision  led. 

The  way,  too,  that  he  had  met  her  at  Harrington's 
stirred  her  imagination.  She  had  had  the  sudden  desire 
then  to  seize  on  him  and  project  him — almost  a  maternal 
instinct.  It  meant  adventure,  risk,  the  unexpected — 
Kirby  was  so  undependable.  She  knew  these  other  men; 

249 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

they  were  as  like  as  peas,  year  after  year;  their  reactions 
could  be  predicted  as  the  astronomer  predicts  an  eclipse. 
They  were  law-bound.  Kirby,  she  felt,  was  lawless.  He 
might  end  in  anything — greatness  or  obscurity.  In  short, 
he  was  desperately  interesting,  and  to  follow  him  meant 
real  risks.  She,  like  her  father,  loved  risk.  Better  pain, 
defeat,  death,  she  thought,  than  the  gliding  smoothness 
of  the  beaten  road. 

Then  on  the  top  of  the  Giant  her  feeling  for  Kirby  had 
developed  to  a  new  point.  She  felt  the  man  in  him  there, 
the  powerful  young  mate.  His  gray  eyes,  his  trembling 
voice,  the  strength  with  which  he  had  taken  charge  of 
her,  were  all  thrilling;  pervaded  her  with  a  mood  she  had 
never  before  known.  And  that  whole  adventure  was  a 
new  element  in  her  life;  never  before  had  she  been  thrown 
into  such  personal  intimate  contact  with  a  man. 

At  the  moment  she  had  felt  willing  to  follow  where  he 
led,  to  cast  aside  the  world  and  go  with  him,  two  comrades, 
man  and  woman,  in  the  wilderness;  to  be  to  him  what  her 
mother  had  been  to  her  father. 

And  finally,  in  the  interrupted  row  in  the  skiff  out  on 
the  dark  lake,  she  had  been  moved  almost  to  tears  by 
beauty  and  wonder. 

There  was  no  way  of  reasoning  what  it  all  meant. 
Kirby  in  many  ways  was  raw,  crude,  untried;  he  was 
clumsy  and  unmannered;  he  was,  comparatively  speaking, 
unsuccessful.  Not  one  .big  thing  had  he  done.  She  knew 
his  weaknesses,  too;  glimpsed  his  ambitions,  his  false 
pride,  his  unfounded  haughtiness.  He  was  even  ignorant 
of  poetry;  probably  even  more  ignorant 'of  the  other 
arts;  woefully  ignorant  of  the  world. 

All  this  she  knew.  Why,  then,  did  her  heart  throb 
under  his  influence  ?  Why  did  she  seem  to  be  more  alive  ? 
Why  was  she  so  happy  to  be  alone  with  him?  Was  there 
something  primal  in  him  that  called  out  something  primal 
in  her  ?  They  seemed  to  set  fire  to  each  other. 

The  memory  of  the  snow-storm  was  ineffaceable.  It  re- 

250 


PENDLETON 

turned  to  her  mind  time  and  again  like  a  rush  of  music. 
What  had  made  it  so  sweet?  Why  did  she  feel  so  young, 
so  free,  so  much  of  a  woman,  recalling  his  eyes  or  his 
voice  or  his  gestures? 

And  then  she  forgot  his  faults  and  thought  of  him  in  the 
light  of  possibilities. 

"Oh,"  she  told  herself,  "he's  somehow  the  greatest  man 
I've  met.  He  has  it  in  him  to  rule  the  world.  All  he 
needs  is  the  chance.  If  I  wanted  to,"  she  thought — and 
what  a  wealth  of  the  woman  was  in  the  phrase! — "I  could 
make  him  a  great  man." 

That  was  the  temptation.  Just  as  her  father  had 
gloried  in  developing  Steel,  so  she  could  have  gloried  in 
developing  Kirby. 

"Day-dreams!"  she  told  herself.  Her  practical  head 
was  at  odds  with  her  instincts.  Pooh!  how  could  she 
marry  a  man  so  much  beneath  her?  It  was  too  much  like 
charity;  it  went  against  the  social  conventions;  it  would 
be  opposed  on  all  sides;  and  then  there  was  her  father. 
He  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing. 

"Yes,"  said  a  little  voice,  "but  it's  been  done  before. 
There's  the  millionaire  who  married  an  East  Side  Jewess, 
the  rich  woman  who  ran  off  with  her  chauffeur.  It's 
happening  all  the  time;  it's  the  theme  of  half  of  the 
romances  of  the  world." 

"Ah,"  she  replied,  "but  the  newspaper  notoriety,  the 
social  ruin.  True,  I  have  stocks  in  my  own  name;  but 
would  a  man  live  on  me  like  that?  And  could  I,  with  my 
lack  of  training,  live  on  his  level?" 

The  thought  made  her  cheeks  burn.  What  a  wild  ad 
venture  it  would  be !  All  the  grooves,  the  ruts  of  her  life 
smashed  open.  It  would  make  all  life  a  ride  in  a  snow 
storm!  And,  after  all,  this  is  the  true  romance  of  life — 
to  reverse  all  the  conditions:  if  poor,  to  be  rich;  if  rich, 
to  be  poor. 

"But  I  don't  really  love  him,"  she  told  herself.  "I'm 
merely  fascinated." 

251 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

If  this  was  so  it  put  another  young  man  in  a  favorable 
light.  This  young  man  was  Pendleton.  Mary  had  to 
admit  that  he  fascinated  her.  She  knew  beyond  doubt 
that  he  was  trying  to  make  a  brilliant  match;  and  yet 
Kirby  might,  in  bad  moments,  not  be  above  such  a  wild 
thought. 

It  was  Pendleton's  easy  power,  overwhelming  mascu 
linity,  poise,  and  finish  that  attracted  her. 

"He's  finished;  Kirby  unfinished,"  she  reflected,  there 
by  making  Kirby  appear  all  the  more  entrancing.  A 
finished  product  has  no  future;  a  crude  Kirby  is  so  in 
teresting! 

But  Pendleton  would  make  a  mighty  husband.  Be 
tween  them  they  would  flash  in  the  round  world  at  the 
very  pinnacle  of  society.  And  she  could  exult  in  the 
domineering  man,  the  big  polished  brute,  the  careless 
master  of  women  and  men. 

It  was  a  match,  too,  that  would  be  strongly  endorsed  by 
her  father.  He  liked  Pendleton,  overlooked  even  the 
fact  that  he  didn't  play  golf.  And  'Pendleton  already  had 
great  power,  was  the  mainstay  of  several  gigantic  corpora 
tions,  and  could  easily  become  one  of  the  masters  of  Steel 
if  Watts  opened  the  door.  In  short,  Pendleton  would  make 
a  good  heir  when  Watts  died.  For  the  sake  of  the  business 
and  the  inheritance,  was  not  Mary  bound  to  consider  his 
suit? 

Not  that  she  feared  her  father's  interference.  Hitherto, 
on  such  matters,  she  had  treated  the  old  man  as  if  she  were 
his  wife  or  mother,  not  his  child.  And  when  he  indignantly 
said,  "Then  I  suppose  you'll  never  marry!"  she  replied, 
"Why  should  I?  I'm  independent.  It's  only  the  de 
pendent  woman  who  has  to  marry.  An  independent 
American  woman  can  live  the  best  sort  of  life  without 
having  an  unpleasant  man  in  it." 

But  one  rainy  May  night  her  father  called  her  into  the 
library.  In  the  deep  quiet  he  sat  there  in  his  leather  arm 
chair,  the  low  light  of  the  electrolier  shining  in  his  musing 

252 


PENDLETON 

eyes.  She  came  in  and  sat  on  the  chair  arm  and  put  an 
arm  about  him. 

"  Urn,  Meg!  Meg!"  he  muttered,  and  rubbed  his  crumply 
bearded  cheek  against  her  cheek.  She  hugged  him  tighter. 
They  were  very  fond  of  each  other,  these  two  hard-headed 
people. 

"So,"  he  said.  "Sit  over  there.  I'm  going  to  talk  to 
you,  Mary,  like  a  father — not  a  toy." 

She  took  the  seat  near  him,  never  dreaming  what  was 
coming.  He  drew  some  papers  toward  him. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  sharply,  "who's  this 
fellow  Trask,  anyway?" 

Her  heart  gave  a  jerk,  her  cheeks  warmed,  but  she  met 
his  gaze  unflinching. 

"He's  Business  Manager  at  Harrington's." 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?" 

Mary  began  to  get  better  control  of  herself. 

"He  has  possibilities." 

"What  sort?" 

"Business — social." 

He  leaned  toward  her,  and  his  words  seemed  to  slash 
her  heart. 

"Enough  to  warrant  a  night's  outing  and  secret  rides 
on  the  lake?" 

Her  eyes  blazed,  and  she  leaned  toward  him;  their 
faces  were  near  together. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?" 

"Why,  Mary,  do  you  do  such  things?" 

"If,"  she  said,  with  sharp  anger,  " you  think  it  necessary 
to  spy  on  me,  why,  that  ends  it.  I  won't  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  you." 

"Just  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  picked  up  a  typewritten 
sheet.  "Listen  to  this: 

REPORT   ON   MR.   KIRBY   TRASK 

On  investigation,  through  Mr.  Harrington,  Atwood's  Agency, 
and  people  at  the  address  furnished  by  the  latter  (a  cheap 

253 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

boarding-house  on  West  Twenty-sixth  Street),  I  find  that 
Mr.  Trask  came  from  Trent,  Iowa,  where  he  was  an  unsuccessful 
newspaper  reporter.  After  coming  here  he  worked  for  less  than 
a  week  as  a  sort  of  office-boy  at  Marshall's,  and  then  for  two 
years  was  a  clerk  at  the  Continental  Express  Company.  He 
left  this  position  without  formal  notice. 

He  studied  shorthand  at  the  Guthrie  School  and  became 
private  secretary  to  Mr.  Harrington.  On  the  day  of  his  arrival 
at  In  wood  he  engaged  a  room  and  took  lunch  in  a  workman's 
boarding-house,  but  found  another  place  the  same  day,  and 
never  paid  for  the  lunch. 

At  Harrington's  he  was  raised  rapidly  and  finally  became 
Business  Manager.  But  Mr.  Harrington  tells  me  that  Mr. 
Trask  proved  very  disappointing.  A  case  of  conceit,  of  au 
thority  without  training.  Without  cause,  and  in  a  fit  of  temper, 
he  discharged  the  head  of  the  subscription  department,  a  man  of 
standing  and  of  long  experience — an  invaluable  employee.  And 
now  he  is  proving  unfit  in  every  way. 

Among  his  faults  are:  heavy  drinking  and  smoking,  dissipat 
ing,  overbearing  manners,  insolence  to  inferiors,  ruthlessness. 

There  was  some  rumor  among  the  clerks  of  an  affair  with  a 
clerk's  wife;  also  at  Marshall's,  a  floor-walker  told  me  of  an 
affair  with  a  shop-girl. 

Mary  was  overwhelmed.  In  this  brutal  light  Kirby 
was  revealed  as  something  crass  and  horrible.  She  felt  as 
if  a  knife  had  been  run  through  her  heart. 

She  sat  stunned,  speechless,  in  pain. 

"You  ask  me  why  I  question  you,  Mary,"  said  old 
Watts,  in  a  kindly  voice.  "  Do  you  wonder  now?" 

Her  face  was  very  pale.     She  could  barely  speak. 

"But  is  it  true?     I  can't  believe  it." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  dryly,  "the  Pinkertons  get  the  truth — 
as  I've  found  in  the  mills." 

Then  she  leaned  forward  again. 

"Do  you  mean  you  set  a  detective  on  him?" 

"Naturally — after  seeing  him  with  you  at  High  Hill. 
I  think  enough  of  my  daughter  to  protect  her  from 
adventurers." 

254 


PENDLETON 

"Why,"  she  said,  "it's  really  setting  a  detective  on  me, 
too."  Her  color  rose.  "I  think  I  can  take  care  of  my 
self,  father.  Good  night." 

And  out  she  went.  But  Jordan  Watts  was  satisfied. 
Her  immediate  reaction  didn't  matter.  He  knew,  master 
of  two  hundred  thousand  men,  how  to  stab  the  soul. 

And  it  was  really  so.  Mary  lay  that  night  unable  to 
sleep,  one  revelation  after  another  flooding  her  mind. 
Why  had  Kirby  interviewed  her  that  time  instead  of 
leaving  it  to  Mansfield?  But  how  could  she  be  so  mis 
taken?  Never  before  had  she  been  misled  by  a  man. 
Why,  she  asked  herself,  should  such  a  devil  be  so  beautiful, 
so  stormily  attractive? 

So  finally,  with  all  her  strength,  she  shut  her  heart  to 
him.  She  decided  to  squeeze  him  out  of  her  mind,  and 
this  could  only  be  done  by  concentrating  on  something 
else.  That  something  else,  in  this  juncture,  was  Pendle- 
ton,  corporation  lawyer. 

She  told  herself  she  was  terribly  angry  with  her  father. 
There  was  something  snaky  in  using  a  spy.  It  was  an 
insult  to  her,  a  humiliation.  And  yet  this  anger  melted 
in  her  grief  and  shock  over  Kirby.  Never  before  had  she 
appeared  before  her  father  and  herself  as  a  weak  fool. 
Had  she  known  how  to  cry,  she  would  have  that  night. 
But  Mary  never  cried. 

'  That  next  day  she  quite  feared  to  face  her  father;  she 
felt  shamed  and  abased.  Luckily  he  was  away,  did  not 
even  come  home  for  supper.  Then  that  evening,  sitting 
in  one  of  the  upper  parlors,  she  had  brought  to  her  Pendle- 
ton's  card. 
,  She  grew  strangely  excited. 

"Show  him  into  the  music-room,"  she  said,  and  then 
waited. 

Her  feeling  was  that  the  crisis  of  her  life  was  upon  her, 
and  that  she  was  curiously  weak  and  emotional.  She  felt 
as  if  she  had  no  control  of  herself,  could  not  concentrate 
her  thoughts,  could  not  abate  her  excitement. 

255 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"I  can't  go  to  him — not  to-night,"  she  told  herself,  and 
rose  at  once  to  do  it. 

She  had  been  proposed  to  many  times;  it  was  a  painful 
matter,  but  one  she  could  handle  with  assurance.  Why, 
then,  this  disconcertedness  to-night?  Why  did  it  seem  to 
her  that  she  was  changing  her  whole  existence  by  merely 
walking  to  the  music-room? 

All  at  once  Pendleton  seemed  close  to  her,  personal, 
absorbing  her.  She  was  responsible  for  him,  for  herself. 
Her  one  word  would  unite  them  for  all  time,  would  end 
her  single  life,  end  Kirby,  end  all.  But  Kirby  had  to  be 
ended — the  sooner  the  better.  A  "Yes"  from  her  would 
free  her  of  the  impudent  adventurer.  His  affairs  with 
clerk's  wives  and  shop-girls !  The  shame  of  it ! 

But  as  she  stepped  along  the  softly  lighted  hall  she  told 
herself  she  couldn't  speak  to  Pendleton.  Why  didn't  he 
leave  her  alone  to-night?  She  made  a  desperate  effort 
to  collect,  control  herself,  and  failed  miserably.  It  was  as 
if  she  were  drugged. 

"I'm  going  to  my  fate!"  was  her  thought. 

For  a  woman  such  an  occasion  is  tragically  vital;  it 
means  uprooting  life  and  transplanting  it  to  a  strange  soil. 
It  is  terrifying,  even  when  it  is  glorious  and  uplif  ted  by  love. 

And  so  she  stepped  through  the  parlor,  walking  firmly, 
her  pale  face  uplifted,  her  large,  brown  eyes  full  of  doubt 
and  dread.  She  entered  the  music-room.  The  window 
was  open,  and  all  the  mildness  of  the  May  night  entered, 
with  the  noises  of  the  city.  Intimations  stole  in  of  the 
dark  cross-streets,  the  enchanted  avenues,  and  the  secret 
undercurrent  of  romance  beneath  the  lights.  Mating 
everywhere  in  the  crowded  city;  shy  laughter  of  girls  and 
boys;  ardent  glances  of  men  and  women. 

Pendleton  was  sitting  in  a  chair,  fingers  of  both  hands 
touching  as  if  in  a  thwarted  attempt  at  prayer,  legs 
crossed,  and  face  also  pale.  And  as  she  entered  both 
seemed  caught  in  an  atmosphere  of  flame,  and  both  acted 
as  if  in  a  trance. 

256 


PENDLETON 

"Good  evening,"  he  murmured,  rising. 

"  Good  evening,"  she  said,  at  once  sitting  down.  He  re 
seated  himself. 

There  was  a  dreadful  moment  of  silence.  Then  in 
measured  tones  Pendleton  began: 

"I  came  for  one  thing,  Miss  Watts — just  like  lots  of 
others." 

She  caught  his  burning  glance  and  looked  away.  Her 
heart  leaped. 

He  leaned  forward. 

"I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 

There  was  a  whirl  of  fire  in  her  head.  She  half  saw  him 
moving  a  little  toward  her.  Then  she  was  amazed  at  what 
she  said: 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,  deeply  sorry."  She  rose,  trembling 
fearfully.  "So  sorry.  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Pendleton." 

And  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left  she  hurried  from 
the  room.  And  she  never  found  out  what  happened  to 
Pendleton,  whether  he  wept  or  laughed,  sneaked  out  or 
held  his  head  high. 

She  made  straight  for  her  room,  locked  the  door,  went  to 
her  mirror,  and  looked  in.  Her  face  was  white. 

"  Now,  why  in  the  world  did  I  do  that  ?"  she  asked  of  her 
image. 

But  happy!  she  had  never  been  so  happy  in  all  her 
life.  She  laughed  herself  to  sleep.  It  was  glorious;  it 
was  a  ride  in  a  snow-storm. 

It  was  a  foolish,  an  unreasonable  happiness. 

"Is  Kirby  a  scoundrel?"  she  asked  herself  in  the  morn 
ing.  "Well,  then,  he  is' a  scoundrel.  Father,  I'm  going 
to  give  you  a  new  job  for  your  Pinkerton  man." 

And  she  sat  down  and  invited  Kirby  to  come  to  Maine. 
When  the  reply  came  she  went  up  to  her  room,  locked 
herself  in,  and  began  to  sing.  She  almost  danced,  too. 
Such  a  foolish  joy  had  never  been  in  that  house;  her 
father  must  think  her  mad. 

And  why  was  she  so  happy?    She  could  not  have  told 

257 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

herself  then,  as  she  held  that  unopened  envelope  and 
studied  his  handwriting. 

"So,  you  come  from  the  scoundrel!"  she  said,  her  cheeks 
flushed.  "All  right,  scoundrel,  what  have  you  to  say  to 
me?" 

And  she  tore  it  open  and  read: 

MY  DEAR  Miss  WATTS, — It  is  kind  of  you  to  invite  me.  I 
am  sorry  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  come. 

Yours  sincerely, 

KIRBY  TRASK. 

She  read  it  twice  before  she  realized.  Then  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  lashed  across  the  face  by  a  whip.  She 
went  white,  and  crumpled  up  on  the  bed.  And  the  truth 
was  hers  at  last — she  loved  Kirby  Trask! 


1W 


xxrv 

THE    SKYROCKET 

[EANTIME  the  "scoundrel"  had  troubles  of  his  own. 
For  if  the  Harrington  business  had  seemed  to  him 
before  like  a  routed  army  retreating,  it  now  suggested  a  last 
desperate  stand,  with  the  darkness  descending  through 
the  bloody  smoke.  There  was  a  mad  last  rush  of  work, 
a  new  and  terrific  speeding-up,  a  going  and  coming  of 
messengers  and  heads.  For  several  nights  the  whole 
building  rocked  with  labor  up  to  eleven  o'clock,  and  even 
after  that  in  the  lighted  editorial  rooms  the  coatless  staff 
perspired  and  toiled.  i  ., 

Men  shook  their  heads,  meeting  each  other. 

"Looks  bad!"  was  the  comment. 

"J.  J.'s  Waterloo,"  said  Brent,  in  a  poetic  mood.  "He 
wrought  an  empire,  and  now  he  is  losing  it.  He's  like  one 
of  his  own  favorites,  only  he  was  a  favorite  of  the  gods. 
Heaven  must  have  found  a  Mr.  Peewee  to  replace  him." 

"Yes,"  said  husky  Hank,  of  the  press-room,  "but  he 
won't  never  starve.  What's  to  become  of  the  bunch  of  us  ? 
Them  girls  up-stairs;  these  men  of  mine?" 

It  was  as  if  the  toilers  were  caught  in  a  ship  that  was 
sinking:  they  must  sink  with  it;  there  was  no  escape. 
Many  of  them  saw  no  future;  they  had  builded  their  lives 
on  great  J.  J.,  and  what  they  thought  was  solid  rock  was 
merely  quicksand. 

As  Hank  put  it:  "Take  a  job  from  a  workman  and  you 
take  his  life." 

Some  of  these  girls  would  doubtless  sink  into  the  under- 
18  259 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

world;  some  of  these  men,  in  their  enforced  idleness, 
doubtless  become  drunkards  and  vagrants. 

And  there  was  the  great  sorrow  of  a  family  breaking  up. 
They  were  all  used  to  the  routine,  the  particular  machine 
or  desk,  window-view  and  slant  of  light,  and  the  comrade 
faces  so  familiar.  Now  they  were  about  to  be  exiled  from 
each  other,  they  had  to  part  for  lonely  pilgrimages  in  the 
outer  dark. 

Not  until  this  was  apparent  did  they  realize  their  at 
tachment  to  their  failing  and  fighting  captain;  he  had 
oppressed  and  driven  them,  he  had  been  cruel  and  foolish, 
but  they  had  followed  him  too  long  to  remember  these 
things.  They  felt  that  he  had  been  the  force  that  held 
them  together,  and  now  he  was  saying  farewell  to  them 
and  leaving  them  to  the  chaos  of  the  world.  The  bright, 
stormy  leader  was  vanishing  from  their  lives. 

But  dominating  these  mingled  emotions  was  the  sharp 
terror  of  unemployment — the  scurry  of  beggars  clamoring 
for  a  place  in  the  world,  the  empty  cupboard  at  home,  the 
unpaid  rent,  the  gloom  and  pitiable  struggle  of  an  im 
poverished  family.  The  little  savings  would  vanish,  the 
ambitious  plans  of  slow  years  be  dropped,  the  boy  in  school 
be  pulled  out  and  set  to  work,  the  burden  of  the  drudging 
wife  swiften  the  coming  of  old  age.  Many  of  these  men 
grew  pale  and  bleak  when  they  thought  of  the  future. 
Now  they  knew  that  business  is  merely  a  form  of  war — 
that  it  has  its  victories,  but  also  its  defeats,  and  that  in 
these  men  are  wounded  and  killed  as  surely  as  if  bullets 
pierced  them. 

And  it  seemed  to  Kirby  that  it  was  a  strange  world 
where  the  destinies  of  so  many  souls  were  tied  up  in  the 
delirious  dance  of  a  J.  J.  Did  J.  J.,  he  wondered,  ever 
realize  how  these  lives  were  woven  in  with  his  own,  so  that 
his  every  joy,  every  anger,  every  success  and  failure,  went 
through  them  as  through  the  nerves  of  his  own  body? 

He  saw  practically  nothing  of  J.  J.  these  days,  but  he 
heard  a  rumor  that  there  were  daily  conferences  up  at  the 

260 


THE    SKYROCKET 

house  between  the  Captain  of  Industry  and  three  big 
New-Yorkers. 

"  He's  making  alast  play  for  aloan, "  was  Kirby's  comment. 

And  on  Wednesday  afternoon  he  had  a  glimpse  of  J.  J. 
hurrying  to  the  station,  satchel  in  hand.  He  noticed  the 
face  of  the  bulky  Napoleon,  discolored,  sleepless,  perplexed, 
and  he  was  not  comforted.  It  was  maddening,  this  wild 
work,  this  assurance  of  failure,  this  despairing  fight  for 
life.  He  could  think  of  nothing  save  the  swift  approach 
of  that  moment  when  the  pillars  would  be  pulled  out  and 
the  house  fall  over  his  head.  And  what  then? 

It 'seemed  impossible  that  so  much  effort  could  come  to 
suclran  end;  that  his  years  of  clerking  and  his  splendid 
rise  could  lead  only  to  this  annihilation.  Already  he  was 
stripped  of  power;  he  went  through  all  the  motions,  but 
the  life  had  departed.  It  was  like  a  frog's  leg  kicking 
after  it  is  amputated,  or  half  of  a  snake's  body  writhing 
in  the  grass. 

It  was  bitter  enough  to  be  a  drudge  with  no  future,  but 
it  was  far  more  bitter  to  get  a  taste  of  power,  to  escape 
for  a  moment  to  the  free  heights,  and  then  be  thrust  back 
to  the  dungeon  below. 

Then  on  Thursday  morning  a  strange  change  was  ap 
parent  in  the  factory.  As  if  the  battle  were  already  over, 
and  the  silent  night  gathering  over  the  slain.  There  was 
a  stillness,  a  lull,  and  Kirby  saw  Edgar  and  Martin  going 
about  like  ghosts  of  themselves.  Somehow  they  had 
become  silent  and  gentle.  They  spoke  in  low  voices; 
they  spoke  sympathetically.  There  might  have  been  some 
one  dead  in  the  house.  It  was  curious  to  see  these  snarling 
young  men  transformed,  as  if  for  the  first  time  they  were 
aware  that  they,  too,  were  subject  to  the  ills  and  mis 
fortunes  of  life;  that  they,  too,  were  merely  these  human 
things  that  pass  and  die  and  are  no  more. 

A  hushed  expectation  fell  on  the  factory;  the  heavy 
pressure  was  suddenly  eased,  and  the  pale-faced  men  asked 
each  other; 

261 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"Have  you  heard  anything?" 

"No,  but  we'll  hear  before  night." 

Kirby  felt  that  he  was  enduring  an  endless  trance; 
the  moments  were  all  too  slow  for  him. 

"If  it  must  come,"  he  thought,  "let  it  come  quickly." 

But  it  did  not  come  that  day. 

Friday  broke  cloudy  and  gray,  with  the  air  still  and 
melancholy.  Brent  and  Kirby  had  breakfast  together. 

"Mark  my  word,"  said  Brent,  "the  ax  falls  this  A.M." 

"Oh,"  muttered  Kirby,  "perhaps  he's  got  the  loan." 

"Tut,"  laughed  Brent.  "Loan  nothing.  In  a  day  or 
two  I'll  be  going  back  to  Atwood's." 

They  said  no  more.  A  dull  pain  was  in  Kirby's  heart,  a 
heavy  expectation;  his  skin  felt  like  warm  wool,  and  his 
lids  hurt  his  eyes. 

Then  they  stepped  out  into  the  maple-blooming  lane; 
but  a  few  birds  twittered  feebly  in  the  drooping  boughs, 
and  as  they  stepped  down  the  hushed  street,  past  the 
gloomy  stores  and  boarding-houses,  and  then  past  the 
station  and  up  along  the  lawn,  they  had  the  sensation 
of  taking  this  walk  for  the  last  time. 

There  stood  the  factory  with  a  few  men  entering  the 
doorway,  and  a  thin  smoke  curling  from  the  chimney;  it 
stood  steeped  in  the  searching  sadness  of  the  gray  weather. 
They  passed  under  the  portico,  up  the  steps,  gained  the 
empty  and  shadowy  hall,  made  for  their  rooms. 

Kirby  opened  the  windows,  and  was  bathed  in  warm, 
wood-flavored  air.  Then  he  turned  to  his  desk  and  sat 
down.  He  had  no  desire  to  begin  on  those  stacks  of 
black-marked  papers.  His  despair  made  him  impotent. 
What  was  the  use? 

He  heard  and  felt  the  faint  rumble  of  the  presses  starting 
in  the  basement;  now  and  then  footsteps  echoed  in  the 
hall;  a  boy  along  the  railroad  embankment  whistled  and 
passed;  and  he  remembered  that  first  day  when  he  had 
seen  the  dusty  sunlight  streaming  from  open  doors  and  had 
interviewed  the  lazy  office-boy  who  was  counting  up  words 

262 


THE    SKYROCKET 

in  a  manuscript.  That  seemed  ages  ago — a  happy  time. 
And  he  had  thought,  then,  that  he  had  seized  on  success 
and  that  henceforth  life  was  to  be  dazzling  achievement 
and  dizzying  power. 

He  smiled  grimly  and  fingered  his  papers;  tried  to 
busy  himself.  It  was  useless.  He  felt  that  he  lacked 
even  the  energy  to  smoke  a  cigar.  So  he  arose  and  glanced 
from  the  window  and  looked  on  the  gray-tinged  woods  and 
the  ashes  between  the  railroad  ties.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  own  life  was  ashes. 

An  office-boy  now  entered. 

"Mr.  Trask— " 

He  turned  as  to  a  dreaded  summons. 

"  J-  J-  wants  to  see  you  up  at  the  house." 

So  it  had  come.  Well  and  good.  He  took  his  hat  and 
went  out.  His  heart  was  beating  dully,  and  he  felt  a  little 
smothered. 

Up  the  gravel  path  he  went,  and  others  were  walking 
there,  too — a  motley,  silent  company,  like  mourners  fol 
lowing  the  dead.  Hank  was  there,  Cropsey  and  Rouse, 
the  editors,  the  photographer,  the  art-man,  the  proof 
reader,  the  advertising  manager,  the  head  office-boy,  the 
chief  compositor,  the  head  bookkeeper,  the  engineer,  and 
the  janitor. 

Awe  seemed  to  hush  them.  There  was  something 
majestic  and  mighty  in  this  last  council  of  the  doomed  host ; 
these  human  beings  aware  that,  though  the  iron  skies  cared 
little  for  the  fate  of  man,  yet  man  could  meet  his  own 
passing  with  solemn  grandeur,  and  thus  as  ever  put  to 
scorn  the  supernal  powers. 

They  filed  through  the  open  doorway  and  up  the  stairs 
into  the  room.  Edgar  and  Martin  were  there,  one  lean 
ing  against  a  revolving  cabinet,  the  other  stooping  over 
a  chair-back.  Both  nodded  to  the  men;  the  men  nodded 
back.  This  unexpected  kindliness,  this  sudden  discovery 
of  human  equality,  touched  the  moment  with  something 
ineffable  and  somber. 

263 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

They  stood  about  awkwardly.  Then  Kirby  saw  that 
J.  J.  was  looking  out  the  east  window,  his  shoulders  stooped 
a  little,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back It  was  Na 
poleon  at  St.  Helena,  brooding  on  vanished  empire 

the  illimitable  waters  between  him  and  the  Eagles  of  the 
irrevocable  Past. 

In  the  stillness  Kirby  heard  push  of  shoe,  strain  of 
chair,  slip  of  hand,  and  looking  on  these  faces  he  saw  that 
they  were  composed  and  tranquil.  He  thought  of  a  court 
room  where  the  jury  had  brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty  and 
the  judge  was  about  to  pronounce  sentence — the  grave 
moment  when  a  human  being  disposes  of  the  destiny  of  a 
human  being. 

Now  the  man  at  the  window  turned  and  faced  them; 
they  looked  at  him,  stricken.  For  the  face  that  had 
flashed  and  been  convulsed  with  dream  and  scheme  and 
tempest  was  now  frozen  with  grief  and  despair.  It  was  a 
terrible  spectacle,  a  soul  showing  naked,  the  one  unendur 
able  sight  for  men.  And  the  man  they  had  looked  upon 
as  a  demi-god  was,  after  all,  by  this  showing,  a  poor,  weak 
human  being  who  knew  the  bitter  taste  of  misadventure. 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  changed  voice: 

"You  know  why  I  brought  you  here.  I've  made  an  end 
of  things.  I've  had  to  sell  out  the  business  to  Boswell, 
of  New  York,  and  he  will  move  it  to  the  city.  He  has,  as 
you  know,  a  plant  of  his  own,  and  not  many  of  you  can  go 
with  him.  I  wish  I  could  have  arranged  it  differently;  I 
wish  I 'could  have  provided  for  you,  but  I  am  a  ruined  man 
myself." 

He  paused;  the  silence  grew  intense.  Then  he  went  on 
in  a  breaking  voice: 

"Some  day  you  may  understand  how  I  was  driven  and 
harried  these  past  six  years,  and  then  perhaps  you  will 
temper  your  harsh  judgment  of  me  with  a  little  mercy. 
Possibly  I  was  a  victim  of  this  enterprise  as  well  as  you. 
If  matters  had  gone  otherwise  you  would  have  found  me  a 
different  man." 

264 


THE    SKYROCKET 

Thus  was  a  quivering  soul  laid  bare;  and  now  they  could 
look  no  longer  at  him,  for  tears  were  trickling  on  his 
cheeks. 

His  voice  had  its  purest  melodic  quality. 

"  You  know  I  pioneered  a  tremendous  enterprise  for  the 
people;  now  I  must  drop  my  work,  now  at  the  moment 
when  others  will  come  in  and  gather  the  harvests  I  have 
sown.  I  must  relinquish  my  power  and  begin  all  over. 
You  will  not  hear  of  me  again." 

He  paused;   then  he  continued: 

"And  you — you  I  must  leave  without  recompensing 
your  bare  service,  without  lighting  a  little  your  hazardous 
future.  You  will  not  believe  me,  I  can't  ask  you  to,  but 
this  is  the  hardest  to  bear." 

He  turned  back  to  the  window  then,  overcome.  Not  a 
word  was  said;  many  were  smothering  sobs.  Then  slowly 
one  by  one  they  turned  and  filed  out.  They  knew  the 
worst;  the  period  of  waiting  was  over;  now  each  went 
forth  to  fight  out  a  lonely  destiny 

Kirby,  deeply  moved  and  entirely  forgetting  himself, 
hurried  from  the  house  and  struck  out  along  a  lonely 
dusty  road.  He  wanted  to  get  away,  to  be  under  the 
skies,  where  there  was  breathing  and  thinking  space. 
And  so  he  walked  on,  the  soft  dust  rising  in  clouds  and  a 
moist  grayness  settling  over  the  fields  at  either  side. 

He  only  knew  that  his  emotions  were  profound;  he  was 
not  thinking  at  all.  Then  large  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall, 
boring  tiny  wells  in  the  dust,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  and 
felt  the  cool  splatter.  Next  he  took  off  his  hat  and  let  the 
pure  rain  heal  him. 

He  walked  faster;  mist  crawled  along  the  fields  and  the 
fences,  and  suddenly  the  landscape  was  sheeted  with  gray, 
the  arrowy  tempest  dancing  over  the  slopes  and  drenching 
him  to  the  skin.  The  burnt  smell  of  the  moistened  dust, 
the  sharp,  wet  odor  of  the  grass,  were  exquisite  inhis  nostrils. 

All  at  once  he  had  a  sense  of  release,  a  feeling  of  quiet 
joy. 

265 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"I've  lost  my  job,"  he  thought,  "but  I've  found  my 
self." 

It  was  true.  Dominion  over  employees  and  printed 
sheets  was  gone,  but  in  its  stead  he  felt  a  new  dominion 
over  that  larger  empire — self.  It  was  as  if  a  world  had 
slid  from  his  stooped  shoulders;  he  could  stride  erect 
again,  without  cringing  or  being  sworn  at  or  being  en 
tangled  in  hate  and  jealousy  and  peril. 

The  tragedy  of  the  fall  of  the  house  of  Harrington 
seemed  less  bitter. 

"J.  J.  won't  stay  down,"  he  thought.  "He's  bound  to 
bob  up  later  elsewhere.  Of  course  some  of  the  men,  the 
girls  will  go  down.  Most  will  get  other  jobs.  But  it's 
all  life." 

He  could  not  have  explained  why  his  unsuccess  meant 
so  little  to  him;  in  that  phrase,  "It's  all  life,"  he  showed, 
however,  a  larger  maturity.  Not  that  injustice  was  less 
in  the  world,  but  that  he,  Kirby,  could  stand  it  as  well  as 
others,  that  he  had  that  growing  imperviousness  to  events 
which  is  the  fiber  of  manhood.  And  this  new  hardihood 
had  been  acquired  only  by  fighting  to  the  bitter  end,  by 
allowing  those  trainers  of  men — work,  pain,  humiliation, 
fear — to  develop  day  by  day  his  thews  and  sinews. 

They  had  only  seemed  to  hurt  and  humble  him;  now 
suddenly  he  stood  forth  with  a  mantle  of  strength.  And 
he  seemed  to  have  new  insight,  too,  to  be  able  really  to 
understand  J.  J.  at  last.  Surely,  thought  Kirby,  J.  J. 
had  never  been  a  free  Aladdin  conjuring  worlds  into 
existence,  but  an  adventurer  who  leaped  into  the  river 
of  business  and  thought  he  was  generating  the  tides, 
whereas  he  was  merely  being  swept  out  by  them,  until  the 
undertow  caught  him  and  dragged  him  down.  At  best, 
like  the  fish  that  jets  a  protective  black  fluid,  J.  J.  had 
ejected  a  series  of  scarlet  spurts,  discoloring  the  waters 
about  him. 

"It's  he,"  thought  Kirby,  "that  is  the  skyrocket." 

And  so  he  was,  leaping  up  in  a  fire  that  consumed  men, 

266 


THE    SKYROCKET 

dropping  charred  through  the  dark  on  wastes  of  lonely 
sand.  But  he  was  not  alone ;  all  over  America  these  bright 
rockets  were  rising  daily,  a  perpetual  Fourth  of  July. 
Some  were  mere  swindles,  get-rich-quick  sluicing  of  the 
savings  of  the  drudges  into  the  night-whiteness  of  Broad 
way.  But  constantly  from  the  multitudes  there  was  the 
rise  of  wild-cat  business  attempting  the  great  leap  to  the 
Olympian  heights.  Of  such  was  J.  J. — one  of  the  guerrillas 
of  business.  The  real  generals  with  their  trained  armies 
tarried  above  on  the  secure  heights;  up  there  sat  the 
Jordan  Watts',  the  real  masters  of  the  machinery  of  civili 
zation.  How  could  the  J.  J.'s,  alone,  unorganized,  forced 
to  be  financed  by  these  same  masters,  break  through  the 
walls  of  the  gigantic  and  unified  industries? 

So  thought  Kirby,  and  with  that  thought  came  another 
— he  would  prefer  to  go  to  Oklahoma  rather  than  work  for 
a  skyrocket  or  be  a  drudge. 

"I'll  stand  on  my  own  two  feet  hereafter,"  he  told 
himself. 

And  he  knew,  too,  that  the  Jordan  Watts'  were  inacces 
sible  folk. 

Now  the  rain  ceased,  a  few  far  arrows  glancing  in  sudden 
sun.  The  blue,  widening  rifts  of  sky  were  freshly  washed, 
the  wide  grass  sparkled  and  glittered,  the  muddy  road 
steamed,  and  the  whole  world  rose  from  the  rain  like  a  dog 
from  a  brook,  shaking  himself  and  panting  with  freshness. 
In  the  sharp  light  women  came  out  on  doorsteps,  look 
ing  about  them,  and  excited  children  tested  the  puddles 
with  their  feet.  A  flock  of  ducks  went  quacking  over  the 
road. 

Kirby  paused  at  a  little  bridge  and  looked  down  over 
the  rail  at  the  muddy  waters;  on  either  side  willows 
with  pendant  raindrops  leaned  glitteringly.  His  clinging 
clothes  began  to  steam,  and  from  his  matted  hair  drops 
rolled  down  his  freshened  face.  And  all  at  once  a  sweet 
intensity  of  painful  glory  came  to  his  heart.  How  he 
loved  Mary  Watts! 

267 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

He  had  not  thought  of  her  for  weeks,  it  seemed;  he  had 
been  submerged  in  the  growing  process ;  but  now  with  the 
pressure  gone  and  the  rainy  earth  breathing  with  June, 
and  with  wood-violets,  buttercups,  and  daisies  about,  how 
could  he  help  but  think  of  Mary? 

And  all  at  once  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  see  her. 
There  was  no  future  for  him;  he  had  lost  everything;  he 
had  a  bare  five  hundred  saved  up;  and  Mary  was  worlds 
above  him.  No  matter;  he  would  go  to  her  once  more  and 
for  the  last  time;  he  would  clear  that  matter  as  he  had 
cleared  the  matter  of  his  job;  he  would  tell  her  honestly 
what  had  happened  and  that  he  loved  her,  and  hence  that 
his  relationship  with  her  could  not  continue. 

For  he  argued  that  he  was  wrong  in  breaking  with  her 
without  an  explanation.  She  was  undoubtedly  good  to 
him,  even  a  little  fond  of  him;  then  was  it  not  a  wrong  to 
her  to  run  off  without  a  reason? 

Thus  he  argued,  remembering  that  she  was  in  Maine,  and 
that  it  would  take  a  visible  slice  of  his  savings  to  see  her. 
Thus  he  argued,  but  all  the  time  his  fully  aroused  love  was 
driving  him.  There  is  always  a  "once  more"  for  a  lover. 


XXV 

THE   CLIFFS 

IT  was  not  the  happiest  of  young  men  who  took  the 
five-thirty  Fall  River  boat  that  afternoon;  he  stood 
there  in  the  open  sun,  hand  on  rail  of  the  topmost  deck, 
powerful  enough,  with  set  and  certain  face.  So  may 
John  Brown  have  looked  when  he  led  his  men  into  Harper's 
Ferry. 

And  yet  a  tingling  fluid  of  expectancy  ran  up  and  down 
him;  he  was  like  a  starved  cat  offered  a  saucer  of  milk; 
there  was  only  one  night  between  him  and  Mary.  He 
could  see  her,  perhaps  take  a  ride  with  her,  perhaps  be 
happy  with  her,  then  say  nothing,  come  back,  with  the 
way  open  for  another  visit.  Why  not?  That  was  all 
that  was  left  him  in  the  world.  He  belonged  to  the  un 
employed;  he  had  no  real  friends,  no  real  home,  and  yet 
had  he  had  all  these  things  he  would  have  sacrificed  them 
for  Mary.  Why  then  give  up  this  one  poor  joy  of  seeing 
her? 

A  few  weeks,  at  most  a  month  or  two,  would  bring  the 
J.  J.  business  to  an  end,  close  up  the  unfinished  work,  shut 
the  factory.  After  that,  the  deluge.  Luckily,  for  a  day 
or  two,  the  confusion  and  disorganization  of  the  working 
force  allowed  Kirby  to  get  away,  but  then,  coming  back, 
he  would  have  the  twofold  work  of  winding  things  up  and 
of  finding  a  new  position.  In  the  mean  time,  Mary. 

He  had  felt  that  afternoon,  walking  along  rain-washed 
Broadway,  that  the  city  was  a  radiant  young  girl  floating 
in  the  wild,  fresh  light  and  the  glory  of  the  sun.  She  was 

269 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

like  that  Mary  in  the  morning  after  the  snow-storm;  and 
all  at  once  he  had  become  faint  with  yearning.  If  in  them 
flowed  the  same  young  blood,  if  they  were  attuned  to  each 
other,  two  natural  mates,  why  should  an  artificial  civiliza 
tion  keep  them  apart? 

But  as  the  mighty  white  triple-decked  boat,  with  flags 
streaming,  band  playing,  and  whistle  roaring,  detached 
itself  from  New  York,  and  with  one  tremor  following 
another  met  rush  of  sea-wind  and  dazzling  sun  in  mid 
stream,  and  rounded  the  Bay  at  the  south,  Kirby's  agita 
tion  increased.  He  almost  wished  himself  on  land  again ; 
but  now  resistlessly  he  was  borne  along,  while  the  crowded 
shores  looked  on  the  wide  waters  overrun  with  shipped 
humanity,  and  the  city  rose  like  sky-hung  cliffs  in  the  sun, 
no  longer  a  young  girl,  but  a  strange  woman  of  the  nights 
with  hair  full  of  stars,  hallooing  her  lovers  in  the  shining 
air. 

Kirby  clung  to  the  rail,  wind-blown,  and  his  heart 
pounded  with  excitement.  On  went  the  boat  up  the  East 
River,  hemmed  in  by  the  two  great  climbing  cities  who 
leaned  toward  each  other  and  joined  hands  of  bridges 
above  the  swimming  monster,  and  Manhattan  stood  to  the 
west,  a  giant  shouldering  an  urn  of  sunset  from  which 
gushed  gold  on  the  waters.  And  the  long  city,  flushed 
with  sunset,  unrolled,  swarming  with  human  life,  until  it 
passed  like  a  vision  in  gray  twilight  on  the  floods  of  the 
limitless  Sound. 

It  passed;  it  was  gone;  only  remote  green  islands  now, 
and  fading  fields,  and  twinkling  lights  on  the  lost  head 
lands.  And  with  it  went  clamor  and  the  modern  world, 
the  red  cyclone  of  the  drudges  roaring  with  its  J.  J.'s  and 
Jordan  Watts',  dying  to  the  south  a  mere  point  of  troubled 
light  on  the  profound  breast  of  the  Earth. 

It  seemed  a  fateful  passage  to  Kirby;  a  journey  of  the 
soul  again  through  the  infinite,  from  mystery  to  mystery. 
And  after  supper,  leaning  in  the  darkness,  he  heard  the 
lush  cool,  half -echoing  break  of  waters,  sweep  after  sweep, 

270 


THE    CLIFFS 

along  the  shipside,  and  saw  the  far  ray  of  the  lightship 
wheel,  blink,  vanish — wheel,  blink,  vanish — under  a 
heaven  of  watchful  stars. 

Untroubled,  and  with  long  breaths  of  trembling,  the 
great  boat  held  on;  but  right  beside  Kirby,  against  the 
rail,  a  man  and  a  woman,  soft  shadows  in  the  night, 
girdled  each  other,  whispered,  pressed  their  lips  together. 
And  he  thought: 

"I  am  going  straight  to  her;  she  is  mine,  but  I  cannot 
have  her." 

But  why — why  not  ?  Here  were  these  two,  born  of  the 
Earth,  to  mate;  and  he  heard  those  whispers  that  sounded 
of  the  destined  coming  together,  that  rippled  the  deathless 
music  of  the  planet,  that  wafted  the  sharp  glory  of  human 
mating  out  to  the  expectant  stars,  and  he  knew  that  this 
glory  had  come  to  him. 

Somewhere  under  this  night  she  breathed  and  lived; 
the  whole  woman  was  there,  and  through  the  night  he  was 
being  carried  to  her.  He  stood,  aching,  trembling  with  his 
passion;  he  felt  that  man,  the  hunter,  must  go  forth  and 
break  through  a  civilization,  if  need  be,  to  seize  on  his  mate. 

"Why  not  do  it?"  he  asked  himself.  "She  is  mine; 
why  not  demand  her?" 

It  was  his  new  honesty  that  hindered  him.  Looking 
back  on  his  relationship  with  Mary  he  was  disturbed  to 
recall  his  Machiavellian  scheme  to  meet  her,  his  cold 
blooded  fortune-hunting;  and  he  could  not  be  sure  that 
at  least  unconsciously  he  had  not  been  a  fortune-hunter 
ever  since. 

"  Did  I  not  have  a  secret  hope  of  getting  her?"  he  asked 
himself. 

There  was  revealed  now  the  lurid  evil  of  the  Harrington 
business.  It  was  this  that  had  worked  upon  him,  made 
him  a  trampler  and  a  schemer,  so  that  he  was  ready  to 
make  a  profit  out  of  sacred  things.  But  now,  freed  of 
this  influence,  he  could  be  honest  again ;  he  could  measure 
by  other  standards, 

271 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

There  was  only  one  manly  thing  to  do — to  square  him 
self  with  Mary,  to  tell  her  all  from  the  very  beginning,  to 
mislead  her  no  longer. 

"She  has  always  been  honest  with  me;  and  what  is 
this  love  of  mine  worth  if  it  does  not  make  me  honest  with 
her?" 

That  was  it — to  act  in  the  open.  She  must  know  that 
he  was  ruined;  that  he  was  not  a  fortune-hunter;  yes,  and 
that  he  loved  her.  And  that,  first  of  all,  he  could  not 
stoop  to  take  advantage  of  her  interest  in  him,  her  evident 
fondness  for  him.  Even  if  by  some  miracle  she  loved 
him,  it  was  for  him  to  renounce  her,  not  drag  her  down 
to  his  own  level. 

But  why  tell  her  of  his  love?  Because,  said  his  heart, 
she  must  know  why  he  could  never  come  to  her  again. 

And  why  not  come  to  her  again? 

His  body  trembled,  he  felt  faint  with  love.  He  felt  that 
even  seeing  her  the  next  day  was  a  peril  that  might  ruin 
him.  He  remembered  the  skiff  on  the  lake,  and  how  he 
had  leaned  toward  the  shadowy  head  and  shoulders,  about 
to  do  something  unbelievable — attempt  a  word  of  love,  a 
kiss,  maybe.  Surely  if  he  saw  her  alone  again  all  his 
brave  resolves  would  go  up  in  smoke.  He  might  do  that 
which  he  would  wish  undone. 

But  surely  she  was  not  alone.  Fat  corset-squeezed 
ladies,  juicy  senators,  and  insolent  Pendletons  were 
probably  at  this  moment  darkening,  like  moths,  his  light. 
He  raged  for  a  moment  with  insane  jealousy.  If  that 
Pendleton  pup  were  there — well,  there  were  cliffs  in  Maine. 
He  might  hand  the  brilliant  beauty  over  a  convenient 
one  and  snicker  while  he  heard  the  bones  break  be 
low. 

He  was  amazed  at  this  feeling.  He  had  thought  him 
self  freed  by  the  J.  J.  collapse  of  all  that  was  evil  in  him. 
And  yet  the  old  demon  was  there. 

At  once  he  lost  his  nerve,  his  confidence  gave.  He 
should  never  have  come;  he  was  plunging  straight  into  a, 

272 


THE    CLIFFS 

shameful  crisis.     He  knew  now  he  could  not  reckon  on 
himself — that  he  would  do  the  unexpected. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  I  have  the  courage  to 
speak  to  her." 

And  lying  in  his  berth,  with  the  wrench  of  the  engines 
making  him  like  a  pulsation  in  a  blood-vessel,  he  could 
not  sleep  with  misery  and  desire.  What  was  there  in  love 
that  made  it  at  times  so  evil  a  thing?  And  yet  the  boat 
was  bearing  him  to  her — there  was  no  doubt  of  that;  it 
was  inevitable  that  he  should  see  her  now.  And  the 
thought  made  him  shudder  with  swift  joy  and  starved 
expectancy. 

In  the  morning  he  was  calmer,  but  felt  fatigued  and  dis 
illusioned.  Gulping  hot,  insipid  coffee  at  the  railroad 
station,  chewing  tough  and  lardy  fried  eggs,  he  kept  re 
assuring  himself  that  this  visit  would  prove  like  the  last — 
a  busy,  gossiping  house,  a  game  of  golf,  a  Pendleton  that 
belittled  him.  That  ride  on  the  Giant  was  a  Ijucky  acci 
dent  ;  such  circumstances  would  not  group  themselves  again. 

In  the  gray  mist  of  the  cool  New  England  morning  he 
took  the  train  for  Boston.  The  boy  went  through  it  cry 
ing  the  Providence  and  New  York  papers,  and  sleepy 
people  lounged  against  the  plush  cushions.  Kirby  went 
through  Boston  bitterly;  in  glancing  sun  the  toilers  were 
hurrying  to  work — here,  too,  a  city  arousing  itself  like  the 
metropolis  to  the  south;  but  Kirby,  trolleying  to  the 
North  Station,  felt  chilled  and  tired  and  emotionally  ex 
hausted.  He  had  written  her  he  couldn't  come;  he 
should  have  stuck  to  his  word. 

It  was  about  half  past  one  when,  stiff,  crass,  and  in  an 
ugly  mood,  he  stepped  off  the  train  at  Cameron  Bay.  He 
half  expected  to  see  the  brown  car  and  the  big  chauffeur; 
but  they  were  not  there.  No  automobiles  were  there; 
only  a  broken-down  buggy  and  a  low-headed  horse  and  a 
grizzle-bearded  native,  whip  in  hand. 

Beyond  the  station  was  a  row  of  stores  and  a  commer 
cial  hotel,  all  badly  weathered,  rusty  and  old. 

273 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Can  you  drive  me  out  to  the  Watts'  place?"  asked 
Kirby. 

"Sure  pop,"  said  the  native. 

"How  much?" 

"Fifty  cents  a  head." 

So  he  bore  down  on  the  step  and  swung  in,  the  buggy 
creaking  under  him.  The  driver  took  the  seat  beside 
him,  wrapped  about  him  a  blanket,  produced  a  squeezy 
sound  with  puckered  lips,  nicked  the  whip,  and  set  the 
horse  jogging.  Kirby  smelt  the  stable-odor  of  carriage 
and  animal — not  unpleasant,  mixed  as  it  was  with  breath 
of  clover  and  the  sea. 

They  passed  down  the  elm-shaded  street  of  the  sleeping 
New  England  village,  with  its  immaculate  green-and- 
white  houses,  and  out  along  the  board-walk  of  Cameron 
Bay.  The  blue  waters  were  breaking  white  on  the  firm 
crescent  of  beach,  and  alongside  them  stood  overgrown 
gardens  and  shut  mansions,  waiting  for  the  summer  rush 
from  the  city.  Here  and  there  a  great  hotel  looked  down 
on  the  sea. 

"Little  early  yet,"  said  the  driver.  "You'd  oughter 
come  a  month  later;  see  high  life.  Parties  and  auto 
mobiles,  and  bathing  and  sailing,  and  motor-boats  and 
carnivals." 

They  left  the  Bay  then  and  went  along  an  old  seaward 
road,  flanked  by  lovely  fields  of  blowing  daisies,  flaming 
old-fashioned  gardens  full  of  hardy  blooms,  and  snug  vine- 
clad  farm-houses,  and  right  and  left,  in  the  distance, 
woods  of  pine. 

And  all  at  once  Kirby  was  aware  of  the  Maine  weather — 
the  brilliant,  shining  air,  the  blazing  blue  sky,  the  salt  winds 
blowing  up  out  of  the  ocean  and  snatching  on  the  way  the 
sweetness  of  the  grass,  the  clover,  and  the  pine — an  in 
toxicating  mixture.  The  hardy  gusts  stung  Kirby's 
cheeks  into  color,  and  putting  his  hand  to  his  lips  he 
tasted  the  sun-flavored  salt. 

The  great  weather,  the  tough  sea-country,  the  tang  of 

274 


THE    CLIFFS 

the  sea  gave  him  a  feeling  of  masculinity  and  of  hope. 
Then  this  hope  was  dashed  by  an  appalling  doubt.  Curi 
ously  he  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  But  was  Mary 
here  after  all?  Could  she  not  have  altered  her  plans,  as 
he  altered  his?  His  insides  seemed  to  drop  together, 
leaving  him  blank  and  hollow. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  if  Miss  Watts  is  here?"  he 
asked,  tremblingly,  of  the  driver. 

"Miss  Watts?"  The  native  gave  his  beard  a  pull. 
"Now  come  to  think  of  it — I  don't  know.  She  come  all 
right;  but  she's  a  great  one  on  disappearing.  A  regular 
woman,  all  right." 

This  was  harrowing.     A  hard  excitement  pervaded  him. 

"By  God!"  he  burst  out,  amazingly,  "that  horse  of 
yours  is  slow." 

The  driver  was  justly  indignant. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  tartly;  "she's  as  good  as 
any  in  these  parts.  Of  course  she  warn't  brought  up  to 
be  a  darned  race-horse." 

A  strained  silence  fell  between  them.  Kirby  was  on 
the  point  of  getting  out  and  walking.  Sitting  still  in  a 
jogging,  crawling  buggy  was  making  him  wild. 

But  before  the  strain  reached  this  point  the  horse 
swerved  and  passed  through  a  stone  gateway  and  went 
down  an  avenue  of  stunted  pines;  almost  at  once  the  pines 
gave  to  a  cleared  space,  overshadowed  with  tall  hemlocks, 
in  the  center  of  which,  shadowy  through  the  pine  boughs 
and  above  the  reddish-brown,  needle-carpeted  ground, 
stood  the  house.  It  was  commodious,  two-story,  covered 
with  weather-gray  shingles,  and  it  seemed  tight  in  the 
plunging  sea-weather.  The  overpowering  smell  of  the 
pines  was  searching  and  delicious. 

Kirby  got  down,  paid  his  fare,  strode  round  to  the  front 
door  on  the  little  porch.  He  listened;  he  looked.  Not  a 
soul  in  sight,  not  a  sign  of  life;  only  below  the  hemlock 
slopes  a  stretch  of  open  marsh,  a  tumble  and  welter  of 
rust-red  rocks,  a  boat-house,  and  beyond  all  the  blue,  dark 
19  275 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

sea  under  the  bright-blue  sky.  In  the  hush  he  heard  the 
boom  of  the  breakers,  and,  all  at  once,  the  whole  pine-lost 
place  was  steeped  in  a  magic  enchantment. 

He  rang  the  bell.  Was  the  house  empty?  If  Mary  was 
not  here  he  felt  he  would  do  something  desperate.  Then 
suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  a  maid  confronted  him. 

"Miss  Watts  in?"  he  asked,  in  an  unnatural  voice. 

This  pleasant-faced  young  woman,  he  felt,  could  strike 
him  down  with  a  word. 

"No,  sir,"  she  replied;  "she's  gone  out  for  a  walk  by 
herself.  You  can  wait  for  her." 

He  grinned  at  this  lovely  person  who  poured  the  horn 
of  plenty  for  him.  He  could  have  kissed  her  for  lunatic, 
unreasoning  bliss. 

"Which  way  does  she  walk?" 

"Oh,  lately,"  said  the  maid,  "she  does  nothing  but  sit 
on  the  rocks  alone." 

He  grew  bold  with  mounting  hope. 

"Isn't  there  any  company  here?" 

"Only  her  father  and  a  minister.  But  they're  out, 
too." 

He  laughed  wildly.     He  had  lost  his  wits. 

"I  don't  care.    Where  are  the  rocks?" 

"Right  down  there." 

"I'll  go  look  for  her." 

"Leave  your  satchel  here?" 

"Yes.     Thank  you.     Thank  you." 

He  turned  then  and  plunged  along  on  the  needles. 
Wild  bursts  of  sunshine  swayed  about  with  the  blowing 
pines,  and,  eyes  on  the  sea,  he  broke  his  way.  No  one 
else  here — the  old  man  didn't  count,  of  course!  Had  she 
meant,  then,  to  have  him  alone?  Was  that  what  she 
meant  when  she  wrote,  "We'll  try  again"?  And  she  had 
spoken  of  cliffs — that  meant  the  snow-storm  ride!  A 
music  seemed  to  go  singing  here  and  there  like  an  uneven 
chorus  in  heart  and  brain  and  along  his  blood.  A  fire 
rose  in  him  and  swept  his  breast. 

276 


THE    CLIFFS 

Now,  looking  on  the  rocks,  he  saw  a  woman  climbing 
over  them,  leaning,  her  cape  and  uncovered  hair  blowing 
in  wind.  Could  it  be  she?  The  woman  reached  the 
marsh,  straightened,  came  swaying  toward  him;  he  ad 
vanced  in  the  same  stride  toward  her.  Yes,  it  was  Mary. 
On  and  on  she  came,  on  and  on  he  went ;  and  all  at  once 
the  great  rhythm  of  their  drawing  together  was  set  up  in 
him;  an  increasing  glory,  flame  running  toward  flame, 
leaping  into  one — a  surge  and  mounting  in  the  air.  He 
was  hidden  by  the  pines,  she  out  in  the  free  sunshine;  he 
saw  her;  she  did  not  see  him. 

Closer  and  closer  they  drew,  nearer  and  nearer,  and  at 
every  step  the  quickening  of  the  rhythm,  the  mounting 
of  the  flame,  as  if  a  soaring  rush  of  music  was  swinging 
them  together.  They  seemed  in  tune,  the  meeting  was 
inevitable,  and  Kirby  felt  that  nothing  could  stop  her 
from  leaping  into  his  arms. 

And  then  he  saw  her  near,  and  coming  nearer;  saw  that 
her  face  was  tanned  with  the  sun  and  salt,  that  her  eyes 
were  darker,  as  if  she  were  a  sea-wife  watching  sails,  that 
she  swung  with  a  lovely  outdoor  suppleness.  She  seemed 
more  alive,  lusty,  earthly  beautiful  than  he  had  ever  be 
held  her,  as  if  the  grace  and  stretched  strength  of  a  sloping 
wave  had  gone  into  her.  Wind  blew  her  dark  hair  into 
sun-lit  strands  about  her  face,  and  she  was  desperately 
near,  a  woman  of  the  coasts,  a  sea-woman  with  wistful 
and  sea-weary  eyes. 

He  wanted  to  shout  her  name,  but  how  could  his  rapture 
give^voice  to  a  "  Miss  Watts"  ?  The  word  Mary  was  beat 
ing  on  his  lips.  And  now  the  music  and  fire  reached  their 
dizzying  climax,  and  he  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  into 
the  sun. 

She  was  not  fifteen  feet  away;  she  saw  him;  stopped 
short,  with  a  stricken  motion;  gave  a  low  cry.  Pain  and 
wild  joy  were  in  that  cry. 

"But  you  weren't  coming!"  she  gasped. 

Was  it  intensity  of  happiness  or  intensity  of  displeasure? 

277 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

He  could  not  tell.  But  all  at  once  the  music  and  flame 
died  in  him;  he  felt  somehow  that  she  was  reading 
something  evil  in  him. 

"I  came,  anyway,"  he  murmured,  limply. 

He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  that 
she  flushed  with  shame.  Was  it  joy  or  pain?  He  had 
not  dreamt  that  Mary  was  capable  of  such  passion;  she 
seemed  to  be  struggling  with  herself. 

Then  she  said,  in  a  cold  yet  uneven  voice: 

"Let's  go  up  to  the  house." 

They  turned  and  walked  back  in  silence.  Never  was 
lover  more  perplexed.  Misery  overcame  him.  He  could 
have  torn  out  his  heart  to  understand.  He  was  speech 
less  with  despair. 

The  walk  seemed  long,  and  all  through  it  he  felt  that  she 
was  secretly  upbraiding — but  was  it  him  or  herself?  She 
opened  the  door  for  him,  and  he  had  a  glimpse  of  lovely 
face  quivering  with  reproach  and  relief,  and  puzzling  him 
the  more. 

"What  have  I  done?"  he  asked  himself.  "Or  what  has 
she  done?  Oh,  what's  the  matter?" 

In  they  went;  the  large,  wide  hall  had  a  second-story 
gallery  running  around  it,  with  room-doors  showing  above, 
and  from  the  middle  of  the  right  side  a  wide  stairway 
curved  up  to  it.  A  piano  stood  in  a  corner,  a  writing- 
table  in  the  center,  and  lounge  and  chairs  were  grouped 
about  a  great,  open  fireplace.  The  light  in  here  was  dim, 
with  now  and  then  a  wave  of  sunlight  from  blown  boughs. 
The  whole  house  partook  of  the  elemental  qualities  of  the 
sea  and  the  pines,  wild-flavored,  as  it  were.  Kirby  wanted 
to  hug  Mary  close,  warm  in  the  bluster  and  the  draught. 

They  stood  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  Mary  spoke 
coldly  again: 

"You'll  want  to  go  up  to  your  room — the  one  up 
there." 

He  picked  up  his  bag  and  started  up  the  stairs.  "She 
hates  me,"  he  thought,  darkly. 

278 


THE    CLIFFS 

Then  all  at  once  she  called  after  him: 

"Have  you  had  any  lunch?" 

He  looked  back;  her  face  was  tremulous  with  tender 
ness. 

"All  I  wanted,"  he  said,  miserably. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  full  of  anxiety.  "You  must 
be  starved.  But,  go  on  up." 

He  went;  the  unpainted  wooden  room  looked  out  of 
low  windows  on  pine  boughs  and  the  sunlit  sea;  and  the 
smell  of  the  walls  was  rude  and  good.  But,  washing  him 
self,  he  was  aware  of  a  tumult  of  mixed  emotions. 

"Lord!"  he  ejaculated.     "Women!  women!" 

When  he  came  down  he  found  himself  alone  in  the  hall, 
but  suddenly  Mary  emerged  from  a  side  room. 

Her  voice  was  commanding,  even  a  little  harsh. 

"There's  some  lunch  for  you  in  here." 

As  if  she  said,  "Why  should  I  bother  about  you?" 

He  feared  to  say  anything,  lest  she  get  worse.  Limply 
he  followed  her,  sat  down,  and  under  her  watchful  scrutiny 
ate  deliberately,  though  every  mouthful  was  bitter  and  un 
interesting.  She  sat  at  right  angles  with  him.  He  felt 
like  a  naughty  boy  whose  mother  allows  him  to  eat  but 
waits,  watching,  so  that  she  can  spank  him  after  the  last 
mouthful. 

"She's  queer;  she's  a  terror,"  he  thought.  He  was 
most  unhappy,  black  with  misery,  gulping  dry  mouthfuls. 
She  did  not  even  seem  to  notice  how  unconventional  it 
was  to  sit  there,  frozen,  watching  her  guest  eat. 

Suddenly  she  spoke  simply,  almost  sweetly: 

"One  lump — or  two?" 

"Two,"  he  muttered,  hardly  believing  his  ears. 

She  mused,  gazing  at  him,  as  if  this  matter  of  sugar- 
lumps  were  of  the  profoundest  importance.  Then  she 
sighed. 

"I  only  take  one." 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  was  on  his  tongue.  He  was  be 
ginning  to  get  angry.  She  was  playing  with  him. 

279 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

He  finished  his  cup;  together  they  rose  and,  without  a 
word,  went  into  the  center  hall. 
•  She  spoke  almost  sharply : 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  to  do  now?" 

"Anything  you  say,"  he  answered  with  just  a  flicker  of 
temper. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  carelessly,  "anything  you  say!" 

Could  this  be  Mary,  the  strong,  the  tranquil,  the 
worldly  wise?  Why  was  she  acting  this  way,  anyway? 
Why  didn't  she  tell  him  what  was  the  matter? 

"You  wrote  about  cliffs,"  he  said. 

" I  did."     Her  voice  was  colorless. 

He  was  almost  rude. 

"Then  I'd  like  to  see  them." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  opened  a  side  door,  called 
in,  "Fred,  bring  the  car  round!"  and  came  back,  slipping 
on  her  coat  before  Kirby  had  a  chance  to  help  her. 

Rather  confused,  he  put  on  his  own.  Suddenly  she 
came  to  him  and  felt  of  it. 

"It's  not  warm  enough,  motoring,"  she  said  in  a  strange 
voice.  ' '  Wait !  I  '11  get  you  my  father's. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  it — anyway — "  he  tried  to  detain 
her.  "Let  me  go!" 

But  she  flew  up  the  stairs  like  a  girl,  and  looked  down 
at  him  from  the  top  almost  mischievously.  Then  she 
disappeared  through  a  doorway.  The  poor  man  was  now 
totally  out  of  his  mind;  she  was  caring  for  him  so  per 
fectly,  and  she  hated  him  so  completely.  Yet  he  could 
not  help  but  feel  that  it  was  wildly  sweet  to  be  with 
her  in  this  house. 

Now  she  came  down,  sagging  with  a  fur  coat  under  her 
arm  and  looking  beside  herself  with  anger. 

' '  Here, ' '  she  said, ' '  turn  round !"  And  she  helped  him  in. 

He  felt  monstrously  swollen,  and,  turning,  met  her 
laughing  eyes. 

' '  You  look  like  a  polar  bear, ' '  she  said,  ruefully.  ' '  Father 
will  kill  you  if  he  sees  you  in  it." 

280 


THE    CLIFFS 

This  last  had  not  occurred  to  him ;  he  was  amazed  at  her 
audacity. 

"Come  on,"  she  said. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  cover  your  head?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I'll  let  it  blow  off.  Come  ahead 
now." 

She  led  the  way  in  the  rush  of  wind,  they  sat  side  by  side 
in  the  low,  red  racing-car,  and  at  once  she  let  out  speed, 
dashed  down  the  pine  road,  out,  and  to  the  right  through 
the  open  country.  It  was  a  mad  ride;  Kirby  expected 
every  moment  to  be  flung  into  the  heavens  or  hear  the 
last  blood-curdling  yell  of  some  innocent  passer-by. 
Never  had  a  young  woman  treated  her  lover  so  shame 
fully. 

"What  is  she  taking  out  of  me,  anyway?"  he  asked, 
clutching  his  new  slouch  hat  and  the  door  of  the  racer. 

He  experienced  almost  fear  of  this  wild  creature,  and, 
glancing  at  her,  he  was  appalled  by  her  face,  which  looked 
straight  ahead,  and  was  passionate  with  a  blend  of  joy  and 
pain.  One  mood  after  another  wavered  over  it — now 
breathless  ecstasy,  now  struggling  despair,  now  shame, 
now  triumph.  One  thing  was  sure — she  was  divided 
against  herself. 

The  mad  woman  now  shot  the  car  down  a  seaward 
road,  a  lonely  road,  with  wide  marshes  on  either  side,  then 
ran  it,  without  diminishing  the  speed  a  whit,  right  straight 
over  a  sandy,  grassy  rise,  up  and  up.  The  car  stopped 
so  suddenly  that  Kirby  doubled  and  felt  seasick. 

"We're  here,"  said  Mary. 

She  was  out  before  him;  he  could  only  follow,  glad  that 
he  was  alive.  The  sandy  tract  gave  to  a  long  field  bloom 
ing  with  tall  grass  and  white  daisies;  at  its  edge  were 
great  rusty  rocks,  and  only  the  heavens  beyond. 

The  untrammeled  sea  wind  blew  upon  them,  gulls 
wheeled  over  the  cliffs  and  were  blown  away,  and  the  un 
clouded  blue  skies  rose  immense  and  brilliant  above  them, 
the  westering  sun  pouring  a  dazzling  light  through  the 

281 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

stirring  air.  Something  glorious  was  released  in  Kirby; 
he  saw  Mary  swinging  on  through  the  daisies,  treading 
them  down,  her  skirts  brushed  together,  her  cape  flying, 
her  hair  blowing  wildly,  and  she  seemed  like  a  goddess 
of  the  coasts  on  the  free  heights,  moving  triumphantly 
against  the  skies.  His  desire  now  forgot  everything  else — 
her  moods,  her  suspicions,  her  caprices.  She  was  the 
glory  here  of  the  sun,  the  sea,'  and  the  wind. 

They  reached  the  rocks,  clambered  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  again  Mary  seemed  to  have  a  favorite  cranny. 
She  sat  in  a  little  seat,  entirely  shut  away  from  the  field, 
several  feet  below  the  level  of  the  cliff. 

Kirby  sat  beside  her.  He  was  a  little  dizzy,  for  the 
precipice  fell  sheer  at  least  seventy  feet  to  the  sea.  They 
were  in  an  eyrie,  with  the  blue  deeps  below  them,  the  blue 
deeps  above  them.  The  ocean  was  one  huge  semicircle 
of  brilliant  blue,  that  broke,  near  by,  into  one  great  roller 
after  another,  pounding  on  the  rocks,  smashing,  swirling 
a  snow,  and  receding.  The  boom  and  roar  rose  to  them, 
the  music  of  ten  million  years  uttered  in  unvarying 
repetition. 

And  out  over  the  glorious  eastward  -  shining  seas  a 
little  smoke-plumed  steamer  was  sinking  over  the  hori 
zon. 

Sun  streamed  on  their  bare  heads,  the  gales  blew,  a 
daring  blue  swallow  skimmed  beneath,  gulls  circled,  and 
they  were  alone  again  in  the  whole  world.  He  had  his 
mate  now  with  him  up  in  the  cliffs  above  the  sea;  he  had 
her;  the  moment  was  his. 

His  mood  mounted  and  he  gained  courage.  This  was 
the  supreme  moment  to  speak.  He  looked  at  her;  she 
was  leaning  over,  cheek  on  hand,  lips  parted,  breathless, 
as  if  about  to  fling  herself  down. 

Kirby  spoke  close  to  her: 

"I  want  to  tell  you — why — why  I  came  up  here." 

She  turned,  looked  at  him  sharply,  almost  with  fear. 

"Why?"  she  gasped. 

282 


THE    CLIFFS 

"To  tell  you  some  things.  The  Harrington  business 
has  smashed  up." 

' '  Smashed  up !"  she  echoed.     Her  eagerness  was  terrible. 

"  Yes,"  he  smiled,  miserably.  "  I  belong  to  the  Army  of 
the  Unemployed." 

"Surely?" 

"Utterly.     He's  sold  out;  we're  sold  out  with  him." 

She  gave  him  a  lovely  glance,  almost  of  protection. 

"And  what  will  you  do  now?" 

"Hunt  for  work." 

"Nothing  in  view?" 

"Nothing." 

She  looked  out  to  sea  again,  and  he  saw  her  shoulders 
trembling. 

He  had  to  muster  up  sublime  courage  then.  Only  by 
forcing  his  lips  to  speak  could  he  go  on  to  sacrifice  himself. 
Her  brief  pity  would  be  demolished  at  a  word,  and  his 
visit  ended.  The  sea  seemed  to  roar  in  his  ears,  but  he 
nerved  himself,  thinking,  "Only  thus  can  I  show  my  love 
for  her." 

His  voice  was  harsh,  strange. 

"There  are  some  other  things.  I — I  want  to  make  a 
clean  breast." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  quick  suspicion. 

"Other  things?    What?" 

He  looked  away,  muttering : 

"I — I  shouldn't  have  met  you  that  first  time.  I  ar 
ranged  it  on  purpose.  I  thought  getting  to  know  you  and 
your  father  would  give  me  a  chance." 

It  was  done;  he  sat,  crumpled,  wishing  himself  dead. 
He  had  doubtless  struck  her  a  fearful  blow. 

There  was  a  silence,  then  her  voice,  frozen: 

"So  it's  true." 

What  true?     Had  she  suspected  this  all  along? 

There  was  another  silence.  Dimly  he  saw  Mary's  hand 
pulling  at  a  stone  that  was  caught  in  a  cranny.  Her  voice 
was  cold  and  even. 

283 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Now  tell  me  about  the  rest." 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  agonized  tone : 

"I  will.  I  came  here  to  say  it.  I  told  you  that  other, 
to  be  honest  with  you,  so  you'd  know  me  before  I  left 
you."  He  paused.  "I  came  here  to  say  good-by;  I'm 
not  going  to  see  you  any  more  after  this ;  I  have  no  right 
to." 

In  the  bitter  pause  he  hardly  heard  her  whisper: 

"Why  not?" 

He  looked  away. 

"Because — because — I — I  care  for  you  too  much." 

She  had  dislodged  the  stone;  now  she  flung  it  into  the 
sea. 

Her  voice  seemed  like  a  smothered  ecstasy. 

"And  you're  out  of  work?" 

"Yes." 

"And  everything's  against  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  then,"  she  murmured,  "you  need  me  more  than 
ever." 

Flame  and  music  swept  through  him  again;  swept 
away  all  scruples,  all  plans,  all  doubts.  He  turned;  her 
hands  were  on  his  shoulder,  her  strong  face  close  to  his. 

"Kirby,"  she  cried,  "I  love  you." 

He  drew  her  close,  closer;  their  lips  met;  and  now  the 
whole  heaven  shone  on  this  Edenic  pair,  on  these  young- 
blooded  mates,  clasping  above  the  booming  sea.  It  was 
unbelievable  yet  natural — all  too  natural.  Civilization 
with  its  layers,  its  conventions,  broke  about  them;  she 
was  a  woman,  he  a  man,  both  young,  both  attuned  to  each 
other;  like  healthy  young  animals  they  found  each  other. 
The  hunter  had  come  over  the  hills  and  found  his  mate. 

And  to  Kirby  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  starting  life  all 
over  again,  as  if  he  understood  now  this  mystery — woman; 
and  he  breathed  the  exquisite,  salty  tan  of  her  cheeks,  and 
tasted  the  sea  on  her  lips,  while  his  whole  being  was 
rocked  in  tides  of  tearful  glory. 

284 


THE    CLIFFS 

"Mary!     Mary!"     A  sob  broke  from  him. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I'm  so  glad  you  told  me  that.  Now 
there's  nothing  between  us.  I  was  wild  with  joy  when 
you  came,  but  I — I  suspected  such  things."  Woman 
like  she  didn't  say  what,  though  the  words  "My scoun 
drel"  were  on  her  lips.  Instead,  her  laugh  was  cool  and 
exquisite.  "And  I've  treated  you — treated  you  vilely. 
Mine,  Kirby,  you're  mine!" 

Was  it  the  maternal  instinct  roused  that  brought  her 
surrender?  Was  it  because  she  saw  that  Kirby  was 
ruined  and  needed  her?  She  looked  at  the  sea  beneath 
her. 

"Why,"  she  laughed,  with  sudden  realization,  "we 
almost  fell  off  the  cliff!" 


XXVI 

A    FAIRY    TALE 

HE  helped  her  up  over  the  rocks  in  a  protective  way, 
though  she  was  well  able  to  scramble  up  herself. 
But  it  was  sweet  for  both  of  them;  one  to  help,  the  other 
to  be  helped.  Then  out  in  the  blowing  daisy  field  they 
stood  close  together,  the  only  bits  of  human  life  in  the 
world.  They  saw  the  road  in  the  distance  lost  in  the 
shadow- waving  woods;  they  saw  the  marsh  and  the 
daisies  at  their  feet.  The  rest  was  blue  sky  and  passing 
sun,  with  three  young  swallows  circling  them. 

They  mused,  holding  each  other's  hands,  on  the  mystery 
which  was  theirs.  It  was  as  if  there  had  been  poured 
into  them  a  life  richer  than  their  own,  a  brilliant  intensity 
of  life,  reddening  the  blood,  suffusing  the  emotions, 
clarifying  thought.  They  could  think  with  wonderful 
clearness,  joyful  lucidity,  and  in  the  passing  moments 
they  bathed  the  world  in  their  own  light.  Each  little 
thing  caught  rays  from  these  twin  stars;  they  could  watch 
the  swallows  skim  and  see  in  those  winged  curves  the 
rhythm  of  the  suns.  It  was  as  if  they  had  extra  senses. 

Was  it  not  the  flood  of  the  race,  dammed  up  in  each  one 
of  them,  now  beginning  to  flow  from  one  to  the  other, 
Nature  opening  a  new  channel  for  a  new  generation? 
Bathed  in  this  flood,  they  reached  their  perfect  human 
bloom,  their  final  radiance,  and  had  in  a  brief  hour  that 
glow  of  body  which  is  spiritual,  that  sense  of  being  raised 
from  the  deeps  to  create  in  a  world  of  enchantment,  a 
world  of  reality,  that  glow  that  brought  clear  laughter  and 
swift  words  and  a  weaving  harmony  between  them. 

286 


A    FAIRY    TALE 

They  looked  about  and  saw  themselves  alone  and  em 
braced  clumsily  enough.  But  how  natural  to  clasp  hands 
and  watch  each  other's  eyes  and  laugh  in  each  other's 
faces,  and  know  that  the  world  reached  a  moment  of  per 
fection  in  them. 

"For  us  the  world  has  sown  the  generations,  through  us 
the  world  reaches  the  rich  harvest."  It  was  this  they  felt. 

All  the  cumulating  drive  of  the  last  months,  wherein 
they  had  felt  that  this  could  not  be,  fell  away,  and  now 
this  miracle  was,  and  they  shared  it  as  a  natural  thing, 
theirs  from  birth.  Their  talk  was  merely  a  music,  the 
words  nothing,  the  intimations  divine.  It  was  a  dwelling 
on  each  other's  name  and  on  the  word  love  and  on  tiny 
personal  things,  as: 

"Kirby,  your  hands  are  cold!" 

"Your  head  this  way,  Mary.  Do  you  know,  in  the 
sun,  your  eyes  get  gradually  black  toward  the  center?" 

"Let  me  see  yours!"  She  laughed  and  kissed  him. 
"I  see  two  of  myself  in  them." 

"I  see  one  of  you;  that's  enough." 

Such  gossip  is  heard  when  new  stars  are  launched  in  the 
skies. 

They  picked  daisies  and  she  made  a  wreath  and  crowned 
her  hero ;  so  he  twined  red  clover  in  her  hair.  Then,  lying 
at  her  feet,  he  told  her  how  she  had  set  him  to  reading 
poetry,  confessed  to  the  poem  he  had  indited,  and  they 
laughed  nearly  to  tears  when  he  recited  it: 

"Thou,  my  heart,  my  soul,  my  love." 

"And  you  loved  me  all  this  time !"  she  said.  "  My  poor 
boy!" 

The  sinking  sun  cast  shadows  over  this  human  duet; 
the  grass  became  a  forest  of  ruddy-lit  aisles,  each  daisy 
rose  as  from  a  sea  of  light,  and  the  ocean  beneath  sounded 
more  clearly.  They  stood  up,  and  the  world  claimed  them 
again. 

287 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"We  must  go  home,"  she  sighed. 

Home!  That  meant  father;  that  meant  a  civilization 
that  mates  by  measure  and  not  by  nature.  The  very 
thought  put  something  between  them  and  made  them 
conscious  of  each  other.  She  again  became  a  daughter  of 
Steel,  and  he  one  of  the  waifs  of  the  street.  Their  ele 
mental  equality  on  cliffs  and  in  daisy  fields  melted  in 
the  hard  light  of  the  human  world. 

Kirby  was  the  first  to  feel  it,  to  "come  to  his  senses," 
as  he  would  have  phrased  it.  Or,  more  accurately,  to 
return  to  conventions.  A  blackness  poured  through  him; 
he  seized  her  hands,  drew  her  close. 

"Mary!" 

"What  is  it?"     She  felt  the  impending  trouble. 

"Can't  you  see,"  he  burst  out,  "this  whole  thing" — he 
laughed  with  sudden  bitterness — "why,  it's  impossible!" 

"Why?"  she  asked  with  ardent  tenderness.  "What's 
impossible  about  it,  Kirby?  Don't  we  love  each  other?" 

He  seemed  to  change,  to  become  harder. 

"It's  this  crazy  social  difference.  I  can't  ask  you  to 
marry  me.  I  haven't  a  thing  in  the  world." 

She  voiced  her  deep  and  amazing  faith: 

"You're  not  afraid  of  our  love — that  it  isn't  bigger  than 
everything  else?" 

"  But  I  can't  ask  it  of  you." 

"Ask  what?"  And  she  spoke  as  women  in  love  speak 
in  their  total  surrender.  "Kirby,  if  you  asked  me  to 
come  and  live  in  a  tenement  with  you  I  would.  It  would 
be  sweet  to  make  the  struggle  with  you,  to  win  our  own 
way.  I'll  go  off  to  a  new  country  with  you." 

"Follow  you,  my  lord,  through  all  the  world,"  was  in 
the  rhythm  of  her  voice. 

Then  she  reasoned  with  him,  in  her  old  incisive  way: 

"You're  out  of  work  and  it's  no  shame  to  work  for  the 
Steel  Trust.  If  you  didn't  know  me  you  wouldn't  hesi 
tate  to  ask  father  for  a  position.  Well,  he  shall  give  it  to 
you.  It's  your  chance,  Kirby.  I  know  you,  I've  known 

288 


A    FAIRY    TALE 

you  all  along;  you  can  become  a  great  man;  if  father  only 
knew  it  you  could  take  over  his  work  when  he  is  through — 
be  at  the  head  of  all.  I'm  going  to  stand  by  you,  Kirby, 
keep  you  to  it,  and  make  you  great." 

It  was  the  maternal  in  her;  it  was  also  her  father's 
passion  for  developing  raw  material.  She  gloried  in  seizing 
on  this  young  man  and  making  him. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  why  I  first  met  you. 
Won't  your  father  think  just  that  of  me?" 

She  was  as  obstinate  as  he,  wilful  American  woman! 

"I  don't  care  what  he  thinks — or  you."  She  laughed. 
"I'll  have  to  knock  your  heads  together  and  pound  in  a 
little  sense." 

He  laughed  weakly. 

"  It  would  raise  a  storm  all  over  the  country." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  roughly,  quoting  her  father,  "the  public 
be  damned!  Come  on  home;  I  won't  listen  to  you. 
Dear  Kirby" — she  suddenly  took  his  head  in  her  hands  and 
kissed  him — "you  can't  get  rid  of  me  so  easily.  I'm  a 
very  determined  person." 

He  knew  that  the  decisive  moment  had  come,  that  if  he 
persisted  now  he  could  have  his  way,  and  yet  he  let  it 
slip  by,  and  followed  her  to  the  racing-car.  It  was  his 
natural  weakness  when  his  own  interests  were  at  stake; 
and  as  they  glided  along  past  the  farm-land,  with  the  west 
a  smoky,  purple-tinged  red  and  the  world  standing  against 
the  low  sun  with  sharp  shadows,  the  lover  in  Kirby,  the 
angelic  being  which  only  women  called  out  in  him,  shrank 
back,  and  the  ambitious  worldling  emerged.  He  could 
not  rid  himself  of  the  unbidden  but  thrilling  thought  that 
he  was  being  wheeled  up  the  slopes  of  Olympus,  that  he 
was  to  take  his  seat  among  the  American  gods.  It  was 
a  miracle,  this  woman's  hand  that  reached  down  to  the 
dust  and  sweat  of  the  drudges,  just  as  he  was  sinking  back 
among  them,  and  lifted  him  at  one  sweep  to  the  highest 
heights.  Kirby's  luck!  When  had  he  ever  set  his  heart 
on  a  thing  without  getting  it?  Surely  it  came  in  ways 

289 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

unexpected,  and  sometimes  after  weary  intervals  of  strug 
gle;  but  come  it  did.  He  could  easily  forgive  himself, 
laying  the  blame  on  destiny.  That  was  it.  He  was  a  man 
of  destiny,  a  genius  discovered  first  by  Janice  Hadden, 
and  moved  irresistibly  and  swiftly  to  the  kingship  of  a 
world. 

All  things  excused  and  prompted  him:  he  had  told 
Mary  candidly  of  his  sordid  purpose;  he  had  bravely 
renounced  her;  now  could  he  break  her  heart  by  resist 
ing?  She  loved  him,  after  all.  For  her  sake  he  ought  to 
accept  her  help.  Besides,  what  wrong  was  there  in  getting 
a  job  from  Jordan  Watts?  Watts  needed  just  such  young 
men;  it  would  be  a  service  to  the  old  magnate.  And, 
after  all,  why  kowtow  to  stupid  conventions?  They  loved 
each  other — that  was  the  supreme  thing. 

Perhaps  it  is  in  the  nature  of  the  man  to  know  a  briefer 
rapture  than  the  woman.  Her  suffused  glow  persists, 
coloring  daily  life ;  his  ceases  when  he  has  seized  on  what  he 
wants,  and  now  he  puts  it  to  practical  use. 

The  miracle  of  it  all  intoxicated  him,  too:  the  crude 
and  penniless  young  man  looking  out  of  the  train  and  see 
ing  the  flames  of  the  steel  mill,  and  dreaming  that  some 
day  those  fires  should  blazon  his  name  in  the  night;  and 
now  the  consummation  of  that  quixotic  adventure.  Was 
he  the  same  Kirby  that  had  entered  New  York  with 
breaking  heart?  And  yet  life  is  dotted  with  such  miracles 
— President  and  magnate,  artist  and  scientist — the  long 
list  of  the  great — were  they  not  most  of  them  just  such 
obscure  Kirbys? 

He  looked  at  Mary  beside  him,  and  spoke  with  sudden 
animation : 

"You  didn't  put  your  father's  coat  on  me  for  nothing." 

She  laughed. 

"Wait  till  he  catches  you!" 

The  mantle  of  the  god  had  fallen  upon  him;  it  was  a 
symbol  of  the  miracle. 

They  both  became  strangely  excited;  Mary's  eyes 
290 


A    FAIRY    TALE 

flashed,  her  strong  jaw  was  set,  her  powerful  forehead 
seemed  like  a  battering-ram  of  purpose.  She  was  pre 
paring  to  fight  for  her  man,  her  mate,  as  the  lioness  for 
her  cubs.  And  her  sublime  love  blinded  her  to  Kirby's 
new  manner;  it  seemed  right  and  natural  that  he  should 
accept  her  protection.  She  exulted  to  think  that  she 
could  do  him  such  service. 

How  would  her  father  take  it?  She  did  not  care.  She 
thought  she  knew  that  "dreamer  devout  by  vision  led." 
Yet  neither  Kirby  nor  she  had  an  inlding  of  the  real 
man. 

What  was  he,  and  what  could  be  predicted  of  him? 

All  that  Kirby  knew  of  Jordan  Watts  was  that  his  life- 
story  was  the  American  fairy  tale — messenger-boy  to 
millionaire. 

He  did  not  know,  however,  the  details  of  that  life  story ; 
neither  did  Mary.  She  knew  the  brilliant  master-mo 
ments,  and  had  given  these  in  her  interview  with  Kirby; 
she  suspected  dark  and  hidden  things,  but  she  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  round  of  the  daily  hours.  Yet  it  was 
in  these  that  the  secret  of  Jordan  Watts'  supremacy  lay. 

He  was  born  at  a  time  in  America  when  the  doctrine 
was  perfectly  true  that  if  a  man  had  ability,  was  "prac 
tical,"  and  was  willing  to  work  he  could  succeed;  he 
could  break  his  way  out  of  the  wage-earning  class,  have 
his  own  business,  his  own  property,  his  independence. 
This  was  our  bright  individualistic  democracy. 

At  the  time  of  Jordan's  birth  the  Watts  family  lived 
in  Pittsburgh,  then  a  little  town  in  the  two-pronged  fork 
of  the  Ohio  River.  They  were  very  poor,  the  father 
working  in  a  glass  factory,  the  mother  taking  in  washing 
and  mending  shoes  at  night  for  a  nearby  cobbler.  Jordan 
had  a  taste  of  public  school,  but  when  he  was  thirteen  his 
father  died  and  he  had  to  go  to  work.  He  became  a 
messenger,  a  news-runner  in  blue  bright-buttoned  uni 
form,  a  thin,  little,  big-headed  boy,  wonderfully  quick, 
attractive,  shrewd.  And  thus,  at  a  few  dollars  a  week, 

20  291 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

without  education,  and  in  the  clutches  of  obscure  poverty, 
one  of  the  American  dynasts  began  his  career. 

He  learned  to  telegraph,  he  became  an  excellent  opera 
tor,  he  was  transferred  to  a  railroad,  he  rose  by  swift  leaps 
through  clerkships  to  a  superintendency.  And  he  became 
the  darling  of  his  superiors. 

From  this  experience  he  culled  the  maxim,  "Do  more 
than  your  job  calls  for,  thereby  creating  a  bigger  job." 

At  the  same  time  he  would  walk  miles  to  a  little  library, 
sped  by  a  passion  for  knowledge;  here  he  absorbed 
Shakespeare,  the  writer  he  loved  best.  Here  he  read 
history  and  science.  He  took  no  time  for  recreation,  for 
the  light-hearted  side  of  life.  Work,  study,  save,  were 
his  disciplinary  self-mandates. 

He  did  save,  and  through  his  superintendency  and  the 
favor  of  friends  he  made  little  investments  here  and  there 
and  acquired  a  small  capital.  But  he  was  shrewd;  his 
rule,  in  his  own  words,  "Pioneering  don't  pay,"  making 
him  wait  till  others  had  made  the  costly  initial  experi 
ments,  had  caught  themselves  wrecked  at  the  moment 
of  promised  success,  and  then  letting  him  step  in  and 
gather  the  harvests. 

Then  came  the  Civil  War,  and  when  the  smokes  cleared 
the  moment  of  industrial  expansion  for  America  was  at 
hand.  It  was  a  wonderful  moment;  America  turned 
away  from  Europe  and  began  to  gauge  and  use  her  own 
resources.  These  were  stupendous;  chains  of  moun 
tains  rich  with  ores,  oil  gushing  from  the  ground,  tracts 
of  prairie  awaiting  the  plow  and  the  herd,  primeval 
forests  of  seemingly  limitless  lumber,  and  a  push  of  popu 
lation  into  new  areas,  demanding  the  building  of  new  cities, 
new  railroads,  new  telegraph  lines.  Besides,  Science  was 
daily  releasing  some  new  force,  or  some  new  method 
of  harnessing  an  old  force;  all  the  mechanical  and  investi 
gative  genius  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  at  work :  new 
processes,  new  machines,  new  inventions.  It  was  literally 
as  if  gold  lay  on  the  ground  for  the  picking  up.  A  young 

292 


A    FAIRY    TALE 

man  could  easily  borrow  a  little  capital,  or  expand  his  own, 
and  be  the  first,  or  among  the  first,  in  a  new  field. 

As  for  Jordan  Watts,  he  hardly  knew  which  particular 
opportunity  to  take;  Fortune  kept  knocking  at  his  door 
every  other  day  with  a  persistence  that  would  have  amazed 
the  author  of  "There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men." 

He  could  have  gone  in  for  Oil — an  oil-farm  was  offered 
cheap ;  he  could  have  gone  in  for  Beef.  There  was  Lumber, 
Transportation,  and  a  dozen  other  enterprises.  Acci 
dentally  he  went  into  Iron.  Two  partners,  one  of  them  a 
blacksmith,  had  a  little  forge;  they  quarreled  and  called 
in  Jordan  as  peacemaker.  He  cleverly  made  peace  by 
ousting  one  of  them  and  getting  control  himself.  At  that 
time  the  inventory  of  the  business  was  simple: 

"One  frame  building;  i  steam  engine;  2  hammers;  i  fur 
nace,  sundry  tools  and  merchandise;  i  small  frame  house  and 
lot." 

Jordan  at  once  turned  over  the  orders  of  his  railroad  to 
the  business,  and  it  grew  under  him  while  he  held  his  job 
of  superintendent.  Other  partners  came  in,  most  of  them 
already  with  some  corporation  that  needed  iron.  The  rail 
roads,  for  instance,  were  beginning  to  build  iron  bridges; 
Jordan  got  the  orders;  built  new  plants,  put  in  new  ma 
chines.  Yet  all  the  time  he  held  the  dominant  interest; 
it  was  here  that  his  wonderful  ability  showed  itself — the 
manipulating  of  men  against  each  other  and  into  his  own 
hands.  His  rule  was,  "No  business  for  me  unless  I  con 
trol  it." 

Then  came  the  Bessemer  process  of  converting  iron 
into  steel;  one  of  Jordan's  managers  compelled  him  to 
instal  it,  and  all  at  once,  by  wondrous  strides,  the  business 
grew  to  ungraspable  size;  there  was  a  string  of  new  mills; 
Pittsburgh  was  enmeshed  by  the  smokes  of  a  thousand 
pipes,  the  flames  of  a  thousand  furnaces. 

Yet,  curiously  enough,  Jordan  tried  to  sell  out  time  and 
again;  it  seemed  to  him  that  steel-making  was  "pioneer- 

293 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

ing,"  and  hence  too  hazardous.  Accident  alone  kept  him 
in. 

There  were  lean  years  to  reckon  with,  when  the  expen 
ditures  for  new  machines  and  buildings  outran  the  profits. 
Sometimes  even  wages  had  to  be  held  up,  and  so  often  did 
the  treasurer  have  to  go  for  loans  that  he  could  not  drive 
his  buggy  down  the  business  street  without  the  mare 
stopping  of  her  own  accord  at  each  bank.  But  these  lean 
years  passed,  the  golden  flood  began,  and,  as  the  surplus 
overflowed  again  and  again,  Jordan  could  only  invest  it  in 
other  plants  or  other  industries,  and  before  long  he  had 
his  hand  in  railroad  and  bank  and  real  estate  and  a  dozen 
other  activities. 

Then  came  the  day  of  forced  amalgamation.  Compe 
tition,  now  no  longer  the  nearly  equal  chance  of  young 
men  in  a  land  of  unused  riches,  but  the  throat-cutting 
of  huge  corporations,  was  found  too  costly,  and  there  were 
huge  combinations.  One  of  these  was  in  Steel,  and,  as 
the  Watts  interest  was  the  largest,  Jordan  became  the 
real  head  of  the  Trust. 

That,  briefly,  was  the  secret  of  Jordan's  rise,  but  not  the 
only  secret.  In  a  large  way,  as  he  himself  said,  it  was  as 
much  the  pressure  of  circumstances  as  foresight  or  shrewd 
ness.  There  was  now  this  thing  to  do,  now  that,  one 
measure  after  another;  he  would  have  called  it  being 
practical.  Another  would  have  called  it  industrial 
evolution. 

But  his  real  genius  was  the  genius  of  using  men — both 
inside  and  outside  the  business.  Of  course  he  never 
worked  in  the  mills,  never  mastered  the  processes,  never 
even  directed  a  department  of  the  work,  but  he  was  clever 
in  gathering  about  him  what  he  called  "young  geniuses" 
who  installed  new  methods,  who  invented  machines,  who 
imported  laborers  from  Europe  more  tractable  and  train- 
able  than  independent  Americans,  and  who  finally  started 
what  has  come  to  be  known  as  Scientific  Management. 
That  is,  each  machine,  each  process,  each  material,  and 

294 


A    FAIRY    TALE 

each  man  was  closely  watched  and  studied,  waste  cut  out, 
effort  economized,  the  laborer  and  the  tool  speeded  up, 
the  product  improved.  No  item  was  too  small  for  this 
scrutiny,  and  the  result  was  the  creation  of  a  tremendous 
smooth-running  machine,  the  brains  of  which  met  weekly 
as  a  Board  of  Managers. 

This  was  inside  the  business.  Outside  Jordan  was  the 
star  publicity  man  and  salesman.  He  frisked  about 
Europe  and  America  in  a  growing  fame  that  brought  him 
in  contact  with  the  men  he  could  utilize — politicians, 
financiers,  corporation  heads,  public  people — and  he  be 
came  involved  in  politics,  dickering,  trading,  and  tricking. 
Tip  off  a  legislator  on  a  profitable  investment,  and  will 
he  not  naturally  vote  for  his  benefactor?  Put  a  judge  in 
right  and  is  it  not  natural  to  expect  wise  decisions  ? 

Jordan's  genius  over  men  was  amazing.  At  one  time 
there  was  a  strike  in  a  rival  mill.  Jordan  rushed  to 
Pittsburgh  and  invited  all  the  heads  and  master  workmen 
to  come  to  his  own  new  mill.  Thus  he  secured  one  of  the 
best  working  forces  in  the  country. 

Part  of  this  power  came  through  what  he  would  have 
called  democratic  manners,  as,  addressing  his  associates 
by  their  first  names,  patting  them  on  the  back,  listening 
to  their  advice,  letting  them  at  times  overrule  him.  He 
also  thought  he  was  democratic  with  his  employees,  and 
one  of  his  favorite  pastimes  was  writing  articles  on  the 
dignity  of  labor  and  the  fortunate  lot  of  the  toiler,  whose 
honest  life  was  preferable  to  the  state  of  kings  and  the 
worries  of  emperors.  Here,  too,  he  patted  men  on  the 
back,  devised  wise  schemes  for  making  them  loyal,  as, 
accident  funds,  gifts  for  unusual  work,  and  company's 
stock  at  par  value.  But  he  did  not  flinch  to  work  them 
twelve  hours  a  day,  and  many  of  them  seven  days  a  week; 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  smash  their  union  and  break  their 
strikes  with  troops  and  imported  labor;  to  set  spies  on 
them;  to  dictate  politics;  to  let  the  accident  list  swell 
yearly  to  the  proportions  of  a  battle.  Nor  did  he  object 

29S 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

to  giving  the  employees  as  small  wages  as  possible,  while 
he  and  his  partners  took  yearly  out  of  the  business  sums 
so  enormous  that  they  had  to  seek  new  investment. 

His  was  the  American  dual  personality  in  all  its  per 
fection:  the  business  man,  no  better  and  no  worse  than 
the  rest,  using  an  ethics  which  found  "All's  fair  in  love 
and  war — and  business."  It  was  industrial  warfare,  a 
host  of  tribes  fighting  each  other.  If  one  could  gain 
control  of  a  railroad  and  give  himself  cheaper  rates  than 
he  gave  his  competitor,  thereby  forcing  the  competitor 
to  the  wall,  so  much  the  better.  Shrewdness,  ruthless- 
ness,  the  willingness  to  trample  on  others  were  necessary 
American  qualities.  Jordan  Watts  possessed  them  all. 

But  on  the  other  hand  he  was  that  "dreamer  devout" 
that  Mary  knew.  As  the  Steel  enterprise  grew  into  the 
"basic  trade"  of  the  world,  the  builder  of  Cities  and  Com 
munication  and  Machinery,  Jordan  Watts  began  to  see 
it  large.  He  began  to  vision  "the  commercial  supremacy 
of  America,"  "the  American  conquest."  He  saw  the 
growth  of  American  business  much  as  Napoleon  saw  the 
unrolling  series  of  victories  and  the  new  glory  of  France. 
And  he  felt  that  he  had  done  much  to  make  America 
great.  He  began  to  dream  of  a  great  brotherhood  of 
business,  world-wide  organization,  a  machine  running 
rhythmically  from  continent  to  continent,  with  the  masters 
in  one  council  and  the  workmen  cheerfully  at  the  wheels. 
Why  not?  In  such  a  brotherhood  the  humblest  man 
could  work  to  the  top,  as  he  himself  had. 

More  glorious  was  his  twofold  vision  of  universal  peace 
and  universal  education.  Millions  of  his  money  went 
into  these  causes.  And  he  even  dreamed  of  the  abolition 
of  disease  in  the  world  through  his  benefactions. 

On  the  one  hand  the  crass  business  man,  on  the  other  a 
new  Providence  come  to  the  world  scattering  Peace  and 
Truth  and  Medicine  and  Advice  to  the  hungry  and  op 
pressed  generations.  He  was  that  wonderful  American — 
the  millionaire  philanthropist.  Out  of  the  chaos  of  a 

296 


A    FAIRY    TALE 

slowly  organizing  civilization  he  rose  to  the  top,  with 
the  power  to  make  or  mar  life. 

And  yet  he  had  no  clear  notion  of  this  power,  nor  even 
the  extent  of  his  wealth.  A  king  has  a  visible  throne  and 
a  map.  A  Watts  has  an  office,  a  safe  full  of  stocks  and 
bonds,  and  a  Board  of  Managers  he  can  bully.  He  knew 
approximately  the  worth  of  his  holdings,  which  ran  up 
into  the  hundred  millions,  but  long  ago  his  brain  had 
balked  at  any  image  of  such  a  monstrosity.  He  simply 
couldn't  think  so  big. 

Of  course  he  was  using  power  all  along,  but  he  did 
not  see  its  direct  effects.  Napoleon,  razing  a  town  or 
massacring  ten  thousand,  could  see  with  his  own  eyes  what 
he  could  do ;  but  Watts,  squeezing  railroad  rates  an  eighth 
of  a  cent,  'could  get  no  conception  of  the  human  misery 
ensuing,  the  smash  of  enterprise,  the  pressure  of  an  in 
creased  cost  of  living.  Taking  a  rebate  when  his  competi 
tor  got  none  was  very  simple;  so  was  the  sudden  suicide 
of  that  competitor. 

His  philanthropies,  however,  were  more  satisfying 
proofs  of  his  empire.  Much  of  this  work  he  turned  over 
to  Mary,  and  her  chances  were  puzzling. 

She  could  dot  the  world  with  new  educational  centers; 
she  could  start  scientific  researches  that  might  abolish 
pain;  she  could  endow  splendid  universities  for  the 
training  of  American  youth;  she  could  set  aside  old-age 
pensions  for  the  company's  employees;  she  could  search 
for  and  develop  timid  genius,  feed  the  starving,  clothe 
the  naked,  heal  the  sick. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  a  careful  spender.  But 
what  king's  daughter  ever  had  such  opportunities  for 
remolding  the  world  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire? 

She  saw  mainly  this  splendid  front  of  her  father;  she 
saw  little  of  the  background.  She  knew  that  where  some 
of  his  associates  had  been  so  stunned  by  their  sudden 
wealth  and  power  that  they  had  become  insane  or  de 
generates,  wreaking  themselves  on  extravagance  and 

297 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

women,  her  father  had  remained  the  same  simple,  forceful 
man,  the  same  terrific  toiler,  the  same  lover  of  literature 
and  music,  the  same  dreamer  and  benefactor.  The  fact 
that  to  this  day  he  would  debate  as  to  whether  he  ought 
to  buy  a  new  pair  of  shoes  or  not  seemed  to  her  a  proof  of 
his  genuine  greatness. 

So,  here  he  was,  a  small,  slight  man,  nearly  sixty,  way 
laid  at  every  step  by  sycophants  and  flatterers,  by  news 
paper  reporters  and  fortune-hunters,  receiving  the  homage 
of  kings  abroad,  dominating  politics  and  society,  neither 
drinking  nor  smoking,  and  in  the  full  flush  of  his  fame — 
one  of  the  real  rulers  of  America. 

He  frankly  loved  publicity.  He  was  glad  to  be  known 
as  the  Great  Steel  Magnate,  the  Great  Philanthropist;  he 
was  glad  to  stand  as  a  model  for  American  youth,  the  self- 
made  man;  he  was  glad  to  give  advice  on  how  to  succeed. 
And  he  thought  what  he  had  done  others  could  do. 

And  here  was  a  Kirby  Trask  of  a  new  generation  who 
found  the  way  up  only  through  luck  and  chance  position 
and  the  love  of  a  woman.  Between  him  and  Kirby  was 
all  the  difference  between  the  old  and  the  new  America — 
the  America  of  riches  lying  loose,  the  America  of  rigid 
organization  with  the  masters  in  control. 

And  now  the  two  generations  were  to  meet  face  to  face, 
the  master  who  was  a  wonder  of  the  world  and  the  pride 
of  his  nation,  the  young  man  who  was  nobody  in  par 
ticular — just  you  or  me. 


XXVII 

THREE   HARD   HEADS 

IN  the  last  of  the  light  they  made  the  gateway,  and  as 
the  car  went  slowly  grating  along  the  enclosed  road 
they  heard  a  great  sea-roar  go  from  pine  to  pine,  wild 
rushing  gusts  of  ocean  music,  boughs  clashing,  needles 
showering.     The  weather  had  turned  piercing  cold,  and 
Kirby  felt  grateful  for  the  seemingly  needless  fur  coat. 
In  the  wind  Mary's  unprotected  hair  began  to  fly  wild. 
She  laughed  with  excitement  and  exhilaration. 
"  I'm  raining  down  hair-pins  and  turning  into  a  Maenad." 
Kirby  had  forgotten  what  a  Maenad  was,  but  seeing 
that  burst  of  hair  over  her  head  and  shoulders  in  the  gray- 
tinged  twilight  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  the  modern 
spirit  of  Speed,  the  spirit  of  the  wheels.     However,  all  he 
said  was: 

"You  shouldn't  have  come  without  your  veil." 
This  little  incident  was  like  that  moment  of  relief  while 
the  dentist  is  fitting  a  new  drill  to  the  machine  that  has 
just  been  boring  through  a  tooth.  With  all  their  might  and 
main  they  were  merry  for  those  few  seconds ;  but  at  once 
they  reached  the  garage,  Kirby  stepped  out,  ducked, 
and  fought  the  gale,  opened  the  double  doors,  and  in 
rolled  the  car. 

Mary  stood  beside  him  in  an  instant,  pinning  her  hair 
up  as  best  she  could.  The  little  building  shielded  them 
from  the  wind.  Her  face  was  daubed  here  and  there  with 
the  glistening  gray  of  the  twilight,  but  he  saw  the  fire  in 
her  eyes,  the  snap  of  her  jaw.  She  drew  him  close,  as  if 
he  were  her  child. 

299 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Kirby,"  she  said,  thrillingly,  "we've  got  to  fight 
shoulder  to  shoulder  now.  Don't  fail  me;  I  won't  fail 
you.  Remember,  I'm  fighting  for  all  I  have  in  the  world; 
oh,  for  my  whole  life.  It's  you,  Kirby;  you're  mine, 
you're  mine!" 

If  there  was  any  last  doubt  in  his  mind  it  now  dissolved. 
He  was  awed  at  this  revelation  of  the  woman-grandeur 
of  her  love ;  this  eternal  woman-soul  that  engulfs  the  hard- 
set  compactness  of  a  man's  life;  this  primal  unreasonable 
flame  that  consumes  conventions  and  practicality  until 
the  world  is  led  by  it  to  new  levels.  It  was  the  ancient 
miracle  of  woman  following  love  though  it  meant  destruc 
tion  and  misery.  He  was  awed,  thrilled;  he  became  more 
than  a  man,  flooded  with  her  feminine  greatness.  Hands 
on  her  shoulder,  face  close  to  her  face,  and  the  ocean  leap 
ing,  as  it  were,  on  the  land  through  the  pines,  he  felt  holy 
with  sublime  love. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "trust  to  me.  And  if  all  fails  I'll 
take  you  away,  and  we'll  fight  our  fight  together!" 

They  sealed  this  oath  with  a  kiss,  and  grew  pale  before 
the  life-and-death  sacredness  of  this  bond.  It  was  as  if 
they  were  married  at  this  moment.  They  felt  completely 
one;  their  lives  now  interwoven  with  network  of  nerves, 
the  two-hearted,  the  perfect  human  being.  What  father 
could  cut  down  between  them  now  without  killing  both? 

She  was  breathing  hard,  clutching  him  closer.  "Come, 
then,"  she  whispered.  "Nothing  matters  now."  They 
turned.  Between  the  waving  boughs  they  saw  the  gleam 
of  the  hall  windows;  inside,  doubtless,  the  great  Steel 
Magnate  was  waiting;  in  a  moment  they  would  break  in 
on  him.  His  last  mention  of  Kirby  had  been  the  reading 
of  the  detective's  report.  Doubtless  their  reception  would 
be  warm. 

Then,  in  spite  of  their  high-keyed  emotion,  hardly  had 
they  taken  a  step  when  overwhelming  fear  descended  on 
them  like  a  poisonous  gas.  It  was  silly,  but  it  was  so. 
Mary  took  Kirby's  hand,  and  like  the  Babes  in  the  Wood 

300 


THREE    HARD    HEADS 

they  tried  to  cheer  each  other;  but  they  were  merely  two 
naughty  scared  children  going  home.  If  there  is  any 
terror  in  this  world  beyond  that  of  facing  a  parent  in  such 
a  predicament  it  is  yet  to  be  discovered. 

They  said  not  a  word,  but  their  breathing  was  short, 
their  steps  uncertain.  Both  felt  icy  cold.  The  fearful 
thought  came  that  possibly  the  old  man  wouldn't  be 
alone;  that  a  strange  and  church-empowered  minister 
would  sit  beside  the  judge.  This  was  followed  by  the  even 
more  fearful  thought  that  he  might  be  alone. 

They  stepped  up  on  the  porch  and  paused  at  the  door. 
Then,  evidently  thinking  that  to  wait  a  moment  longer 
would  completely  unnerve  them,  Mary  turned,  gave  Kirby 
a  little  kiss,  pushed  the  door  open,  and  they  entered, 
staggered,  one  behind  the  other.  Kirby  forced  the  door 
shut  with  his  back,  and  a  gust  of  wind  smote  the  lamp 
and  made  it  flicker  and  rattled  the  hangings. 

Now,  Jordan  Watts  had  heard  of  Kirby's  coming  from 
the  servants;  he  was  not  unprepared;  he  had  sent  the 
minister  to  his  room,  and  he  sat  by  the  flaming  fireplace 
in  a  little  low  arm-chair,  hands  folded.  But  he  also  had 
been  searching  feverishly  for  his  coat,  and  so  when  he 
saw  the  twofold  apparition  of  his  coat  and  Kirby  all  in 
one  he  was  divided  between  love  of  his  child  and  love  of 
his  property. 

He  stood  up,  and  his  sharp  eyes  were  little  steel  gimlets 
that  bored  swift  holes  through  the  last  shreds  of  Kirby's 
self-possession.  At  this  supreme  moment  in  the  lives  of 
three  this  was  the  remark  he  uttered : 

"I'd  thank  you  to  take  off  my  coat." 

The  two  stricken  children  looked  pained,  and  stood 
silent.  Wise  little  Watts!  With  one  commonplace  re 
mark  he  threw  the  grandeur  of  love  and  marriage  out  of 
doors,  and  he  pinned  these  young  persons  to  so  practical 
an  issue  that  they  could  only  feel  submissively  guilty. 
It  is  by  such  strokes  that  a  Watts  manipulates  men. 

In  the  silence  he  repeated  his  request  sharply. 

301 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"I'd  thank  you,  I  say,  if  you'd  take  off  my  coat." 

Was  this  standing  by  Mary  or  failing  her?  Kirby 
didn't  know.  He  took  off  the  coat  and  laid  it  tremblingly 
over  a  chair.  At  once  he  felt  as  if  he  had  taken  off  his 
armor.  But  Mary  was  taking  off  her  coat,  too. 

"Now,"  said  Jordan  Watts,  incisively,  "sit  down." 

They  preferred  to  stand;  sitting  meant  bending  the 
knee — a  sure  sign  of  submission.  But  sit  they  did,  Mary 
on  a  rocker,  Kirby  on  a  backless  stool  that  made  him 
squirm  with  discomfort.  But  under  those  eyes  the  first 
chair  handy  was  a  heavenly  haven. 

Then  Jordan  seated  himself,  looked  in  the  fire,  brought 
his  hands  together  with  the  fingers  touching. 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  purring  voice,  as  a  king  might  speak 
when  he  contemplates  beheading  a  man. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I'd  thank  you  to  tell  me  the  whole 
truth  in  this  matter." 

Kirby  glanced  at  Mary;  her  face,  half  washed  by  fire 
light  and  rich  with  flowing  colors  of  the  hearth  and  the 
shadows  of  the  room,  looked  desperate. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "we're  engaged  to  be  married." 

Jordan  gave  her  a  strange,  swift  look,  as  if  for  a  moment 
the  father  peered  through  his  face.  Then  calmly  he  took 
out  his  watch  and  gazed  at  it  steadily,  using  it  as  a  focus 
to  gather  his  dizzied  thoughts.  There  was  something 
terrible  in  this  silent,  unshaken  power;  so  the  sergeant, 
wounded  to  death,  could  stand  serene  and  make  a  report 
of  the  battle  to  Napoleon. 

When  next  he  spoke  his  voice  was  thin  and  cool. 

"Granting  that  for  the  sake  of  argument,  how  do  you 
propose  to  live?" 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  beg  him  for  mercy. 

"Any  way  Kirby  does." 

That  "Kirby"  was  a  fresh  stab,  but  the  pierced  man 
merely  studied  his  watch  again. 

"And  what  if  this  fellow  is  out  of  a  job?"  asked  Jordan. 

Kirby  was  stung  into  quivering  speech. 

302 


THREE    HARD    HEADS 

"I  am,  already.     The  Harrington  business  is  sold  out." 

Jordan  ignored  Kirby,  but  not  what  Kirby  said. 

"Then  that's  why  the  fellow  has  come  here."  An 
almost  imperceptible  tremor  of  awful  passion  went  into 
his  voice.  "Mary,  have  you  lost  your  senses?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  dangerously;  so  did  Kirby 's.  Three 
bull-heads  were  now  gathered  together.  Mary  rose,  the 
fierce  lioness  again. 

"Father,"  she  said  with  splendid  anger,  "Kirby  and  I 
love  each  other  and  we're  going  to  marry.  Now  make 
the  most  of  it." 

Human  nature  could  not  endure  this;  Jordan  rose  pre 
cipitously,  a  little  old  father  crushed  by  his  ungrateful 
child.  Serenity  had  vanished. 

"Mary" — his  voice  broke — "you  know  what  this 
means."  He  gave  a  bitter,  whining  laugh.  "Tut!  after 
all  these  years  of  trusting  in  you.  And  I  thought  myself 
a  successful  man." 

He  was  discovering  that  fathers,  whether  paupers  or 
princes,  are  failures  all.  The  spectacle  was  terrible,  the 
world's  superman  seemingly  above  the  frailties  of  the 
flesh,  the  master  of  multitudes,  the  smiling  Providence  of 
America,  shaking  there  like  an  agonized  little  vagrant. 

Kirby  felt  abashed;    Mary  was  frightened. 

"You  forget,"  he  went  on  in  a  whisper,  his  face  twitch 
ing,  "that  I  only  have  you.  And  I  had  such  plans  for 
you.  You  could  have  had  the  greatest,  the  highest." 
He  tried  to  master  himself,  aghast  at  his  own  breakdown. 
"Think  once  again — yes,  before  we  are  done  with  each 
other." 

Suddenly  he  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  shook  with 
silent,  wrenching  sobs. 

Mary's  face  was  tragic  with  grief  and  love.  She  turned, 
and  with  one  hand  on  the  mantel  looked  into  the  fire.  In 
the  silence  they  heard  the  sizzling  of  sap  in  the  flames,  the 
dull  dropping  of  charred  wood,  and  the  blows  of  the  sea- 
wind  on  straining  doors  and  windows. 

303 


Kirby  felt  now  that  all  was  lost;  that  he  had  better 
take  his  things  and  go.  He  had  not  dreamt  that  Jordan 
loved  Mary  so  overwhelmingly,  and  he  realized  now  that 
this  proposal  of  a  low  marriage  would  seem  to  the  father 
like  the  ruining  of  his  life.  Was  it  that  this  man  had 
built  up  his  towering  life-work  just  to  set  Mary  on  the 
top,  and  that  he  found  now  that  he  had  only  the  meaning 
less  pedestal?  Was  there  no  satisfaction  in  worldly  suc 
cess,  then,  save  in  wrapping  it  up  in  some  personal  love — 
in  carrying  it  over  to  a  wife  or  a  child?  Was  all  vanity, 
then,  save  love? 

Jordan  was  suddenly  stung  into  a  new  outbreak. 

"Our  years  together,  our  work — they  mean  nothing  to 
you?  The  trust  I  put  in  you — it  means  nothing?  Why 
do  you  stand  there?  Have  you  nothing  to  say?" 

Then  she  spoke  in  a  melancholy,  lovely,  low  voice: 

"You  have  never  really  trusted  me,  father.  When 
have  I  judged  of  men  wrongly?  You  are  not  trusting 
me  now.  I  have  learned  from  Kirby's  own  lips  his 
faults — worse  than  any  you  told  me.  But  not  so  bad,  my 
father,  as  your  own." 

This  well-balanced  thrust  hardened  his  anguish  'into 
anger;  he  spoke  bruskly: 

"His  faults!  What  of  it?  Look  at  him — unsuccessful, 
penniless,  a  mere  clerk.  Why,  it's  shameful  that  I  must 
argue  this  thing  with  you!" 

Mary's  eyes  flashed  again.     She  looked  up. 

"A  clerk?  And  what  am  I,  then?  Kirby  is  the  son  of 
a  school  principal;  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  messenger-boy." 

This  master-stroke  made  him  glare,  struck  speechless. 
It  was  as  if  his  daughter  were  himself  striking  back  at  him 
self. 

She  went  on,  incisively: 

"When  you  were  twenty-eight  you  had  a  little  money, 
but  you  were  just  beginning.  Kirby  in  four  years  has 
done  wonderfully.  And  I  know  what  he  could  do  if  he  had 
the  chance.  If  you  were  wise  you  would  trust  me,  father, 

3°4 


THREE    HARD    HEADS 

and  give  him  a  position.  He  and  I  would  see  to  it  that  he 
made  good.  You  know  me.  And  you  have  no  son  to 
carry  on  your  work.  I  am  bringing  you  one,  father,  one 
that  I  believe  in  more  than  in  these  fat  and  disillusioned 
men  you  seem  to  favor."  She  paused,  then  she  said, 
convincingly,  in  a  voice  that  meant  that  her  decision  was 
irrevocable:  ''However,  I  won't  force  you  to  argue. 
Kir  by  and  I  are  ready  to  go  our  way  alone." 

He  sat  there  knitting  his  brows,  as  if  his  father-passion 
was  dwindling  in  this  hard  Watts  atmosphere.  Her 
methods  were  so  like  his  own,  and  so  telling,  that  he 
bristled  with  his  business  temper. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  keenly,  making  mere  slits  of  his  eyes; 
"so  you  think  you  could  live  in  poverty — you?" 

She  seemed  to  change  almost  into  a  man  then ;  her  face 
hard,  her  powerful  forehead  drawn  with  thought,  her  eyes 
glittering.  And  she  used  a  bludgeon,  after  the  manner  of 
the  Watts. 

"  Come,  come,  father,  why  do  we  waste  time  in  fine  talk? 
You  know  the  truth  of  this  matter.  So  far  as  I'm  con 
cerned,  I  own  a  hundred  thousand  in  stock,  and  I  own  this 
house.  We  won't  starve.  And  as  for  you,  the  plain  fact 
is  that  you  can't  disown  me.  Why,  if  people  knew  that 
you  objected  to  my  loving  a  poor  man  what  would  become 
of  your  fame  as  a  philanthropist  and  a  democrat?" 

He  was  cornered,  no  doubt  of  that.  He  had  never  had 
any  real  authority  over  her,  and  now  the  matter  was  com 
pletely  out  of  his  hands.  He  could  not  help  but  know  that 
he  was  beaten.  But  there  was  the  strained  silence  of  a 
deadlock. 

In  this  silence  Kirby  was  feeling  a  new  excitement. 
This  heated  argument  had  crystallized  the  issue  for  him 
and  had  taken  it  out  of  the  realm  of  his  love  for  Mary. 
It  was  just  a  hard  fight  between  hard-headed  people. 
Swiftly  he  saw  the  matter  as  his  one  supreme  chance — 
the  final  opportunity.  The  stakes  were  an  empire;  at 
one  stroke  he  could  force  himself  to  the  very  top,  seize  on 

305 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

dominion,  attain  greatness  and  power  and  wealth.  There 
was  nothing  beautiful  in  this  mood  of  his;  neither,  per 
haps,  was  there  anything  beautiful  in  this  wrangle  between 
father  and  daughter.  It  was  the  old  property  fight:  the 
issue  that  divides  families  and  lovers  and  comrades;  that 
goes  back  to  the  battle  of  wolves  over  a  carcass — the 
hunger  instinct,  as  opposed  to  the  love  instinct. 

And  as  a  great  issue  always  educed  from  Kirby  his  full 
strength,  he  began  to  feel  power,  crushing  might;  he  felt 
himself  a  match  for  Jordan  Watts  or  any  other.  Fully 
roused,  he  now  stood  up.  His  powerful  head  was  erect, 
his  gray  eyes  sharp. 

' '  Mary, ' '  he  said,  ' '  would  you  mind  leaving  us  ?  I  want 
to  speak  to  your  father." 

Jordan  turned  on  him;  had  revealed  to  him  the  other 
Kirby;  caught  the  direct  glance  of  the  eyes;  quivered 
with  a  new  realization.  Could  Mary,  after  all,  be  right 
about  this  young  fellow?  Jordan  was  quick  to  appreciate 
power  in  men. 

As  for  Mary,  she  turned,  gave  the  two  men  a  proud  look, 
as  if  to  say, ' '  See !  There's  your  man !"  then  spoke  firmly : 

"No,  I  shall  stay  here.  But  you  needn't  mind  me; 
say  everything,  Kirby," 

He  understood;  all  three  were  too  fully  roused  now  to 
be  delicate  with  one  another.  So  Kirby  plunged  in  as 
if  Mary  were  not  there.  He  drew  the  rocker  close  to 
Jordan  and  sat  down,  facing  him.  It  was  the  two  genera 
tions  locking  horns — the  tried  and  successful  man,  getting 
a  little  old,  soon  to  pass;  the  youth,  fresh,  harsh,  deter 
mined  to  dispute  dominion,  to  break  his  way  in  and  in 
herit  the  empire.  Jordan  could  only  listen  to  him  as  to 
an  equal — such  was  Kirby's  power. 

"Mr.  Watts,"  said  Kirby,  "you  and  I  have  got  to  speak 
with  each  other.  I  have  some  rights  in  this  matter,  and 
if  I  wanted  to  I  could  take  advantage  of  your  daughter's 
love.  But  I  am  going  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  you, 
as  I  see  it,  and  you  can  judge  for  yourself." 

306 


THREE    HARD    HEADS 

With  clear  and  convincing  candor,  then,  he  told  of  his 
coming  to  the  city  with  Janice  Hadden's  letter;  of  his 
hopes;  of  the  evening  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  house;  of  his 
struggle;  of  his  rise  at  Harrington's;  finally,  frankly,  of 
his  plan  to  break  into  the  Watts  business. 

"It  wasn't  a  pretty  thing,  Mr.  Watts,  and  I  make  no 
excuses.  But  you  may  understand  me;  for,  doubtless, 
you,  a  successful  business  man,  have  used  similar  methods 
yourself." 

Finally  he  wound  up: 

"Now,  what  is  there  for  me  to  do?  I  admit  I  want, 
with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  to  rise,  to  have  power.  What 
of  it?  So  did  you  in  your  time.  You  won't  blame  me 
for  that.  But  when  it  comes  to  your  daughter,  this  is 
the  simple  fact — she  loves  me;  I  love  her.  In  this  my 
motive  and  hers  is  as  clear  and  honest  as  your  love  for 
her  as  a  father.  We  love  each  other;  the  best  reason,  I 
take  it,  for  a  marriage.  I  know  I  can  make  her  happy; 
I  know  that  she  won't  starve.  Now  what,  as  a  man,  can 
I  do?  Because  I'm  ambitious  shall  I  give  her  up?  You 
wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  yourself." 

Jordan  had  been  watching  closely;  he  was  impressed; 
he  was  forced  to  believe,  forced  to  realize  that  Kirby  had  a 
tremendous  future.  Yet  his  dilemma  was  painful:  as  a 
father  he  wanted  to  give  Mary  her  way,  as  a  magnate  he 
desired  to  use  her  as  a  flag  to  set  atop  his  skyscraping 
steel. 

Through  all  this  Mary  watched  the  two,  as  a  woman 
watches  her  lover  in  a  duel;  her  face  was  pale  and  set,  and 
blazed  now  and  then  with  triumphant  admiration  for 
Kirby.  What  a  man  he  was !  How  he  responded  to  her 
trust  in  him,  came  up  to  her  expectations!  How  proud 
she  was  to  be  loved  by  him,  how  proud  to  be  able  to  help 
make  him,  evoke  his  greatness,  put  him  in  his  natural 
position  in  the  world!  At  the  moment  she  had  no  pity 
for  her  father. 

She  met  Kirby's  eyes  when  he  finished,  flashed  him  a 

21  307 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Well  done!  Splendid!  You  have  stood  by  me!"  But 
just  then  the  minister  came  down  the  stairs. 

Jordan  rose  stiff,  fatigued,  care-worn. 

"  111  think  of  what  we  said  and  tell  you  later." 

It  was  the  declaration  of  a  truce,  and  first  Mary  and 
then  Kirby  went  up-stairs  to  make  ready  for  supper. 
They  met  again  in  the  Hall  just  as  Jordan  and  the  minister 
started  for  the  dining-room. 

Mary  pressed  Kirby's  hand. 

"We  must  make  him  decide  to-night,"  she  said. 

At  the  table  there  was  constraint  and  silence.  The 
minister,  glancing  with  puzzled  expression  from  one  to  the 
other  of  these  three  obstinate  people,  tried  now  and  then 
to  begin  conversation.  No  one  noticed  him.  Jordan  was 
in  a  black  study,  now  and  then  a  tremor  of  pain  in  his 
face;  Mary  seemed  suddenly  tired  and  desperate,  as  if 
the  glory  of  the  day  had  somehow  vanished;  Kirby  had  a 
hard,  tremendous  excitement.  He  did  not  know  what  he 
was  eating,  and  overate  with  unpleasant  speed;  his  cheeks 
were  flushed,  his  temples  throbbing.  A  dozen  magnificent 
possibilities  danced  in  his  brain,  and  he  felt  that  it  was 
impossible  to  wait  for  Jordan's  decision.  Now  he  saw 
himself  one  of  the  heads  of  a  world  business;  now  he  saw 
himself  taking  Mary  away  for  an  obscure  existence  wherein 
their  love  might  break  down.  All  his  future  was  bound 
up  behind  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  little  man  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  He  longed  to  read  the  thought  in  that  brooding 
face. 

He  thought  of  other  things,  too — that  Mary  had  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  that  she  owned  this  house. 
But  then,  could  he  bring  himself  to  touch  her  money? 
He  tried  to  push  the  dreadful  thought  from  his  mind. 
Property!  Up  on  the  Giant,  out  on  the  lake,  sitting  on 
the  sea-cliff,  he  and  Mary  were  merely  two  human  beings, 
divine  and  young.  Nothing  sordid  there;  no  crass  con 
siderations;  love  was  everything.  But  as  soon  as  they 
came  back  to  the  human  world  civilization  touched  them 

308 


THREE    HARD    HEADS 

with  its  Midas-hand  and  put  a  hard  gilding  on  their  pas 
sion;  made  them  calculating,  base,  lustful.  It  brought 
the  rude  excitement  of  the  gambling-table,  the  cockpit, 
the  prize-fight. 

But  the  miracle  in  it  all  fired  his  imagination — the  poor 
boy  coming  from  Trent  to  take  the  metropolis  by  storm, 
and  already  seizing  on  its  chief  hostage,  its  Helen  of  Troy, 
and  using  her  involuntarily  as  a  means  of  breaking  down 
the  gates.  Either  way  he  had  Mary;  and  Mary  was  an 
only  child ;  had  money  and  property  of  her  own  already. 

Supper  over,  Jordan  calmly  took  the  minister  to  a 
lamp-lit  corner  of  the  room  and  played  checkers.  Mary 
and  Kirby  could  only  sit  down  before  the  open  fire,  facing 
it,  legs  stretched  and  feet  crossed.  They  gazed  at  that 
fire  like  dogs  at  the  day's  end  after  the  chase.  This  gazing 
at  fire  is  one  of  the  rituals  of  the  human  race,  coming  up 
from  the  days  of  the  cave-man  until  it  was  cut  off  by  hot- 
air  furnaces  and  steam  radiators.  And  some  of  the  dream- 
heritage  of  the  long  ancestry  comes  back  at  such  a  mo 
ment,  rousing  the  primitive  again. 

They  had  barely  passed  a  word  together,  both  feeling 
that  their  love  was  somehow  tarnished;  but  now,  as  they 
watched  the  blue  rise  into  red  and  gold,  saw  the  white 
heart  of  the  fagots,  beheld  the  rearrangement  of  cinder- 
dropping  logs,  heard  the  blaze  and  draught  of  the  chimney, 
and  the  bluster  of  the  sea  about  the  house,  they  drew 
closer  again,  a  man  and  woman  come  into  their  cave  from 
the  howling  night  to  dream  sleepily  together  before  the 
flames. 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled  sweetly. 

"Ah,  Kirby,"  whispered  Mary,  "we  shall  have  a  life 
time  of  this." 

A  rhythm  of  loving  content  was  set  up  in  them;  a 
strange  home  comfort;  the  richness  and  sweetness  of  a 
lonely  fireside.  Now  and  then  they  heard  the  low  voices 
of  the  checker-players,  a  hum  in  their  ears. 

Then  through  their  tranquil  expectancy  ran  the  quiver 
309 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

of  the  event;  they  straightened,  their  hearts  leaped. 
For  the  minister  was  saying  good  night  and  passing  up 
the  stairs. 

In  the  silence  Jordan  came  shuffling  over,  stood  looking 
at  the  fire,  drew  up  a  chair  between  them.  Glancing  at 
him  apprehensively,  they  saw  something  pathetic  and 
broken  in  his  mien,  something  new  in  his  posture,  as  if 
he  was  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  an  old  man. 

He  talked  quietly,  as  from  his  heart: 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  hold  my  head  quite  high  again. 
You  have  brought  me  to  a  pretty  pass,  Mary;  you  have 
humiliated  your  father.  For  though  personally  I  might 
approve  of  your  choice,  you  and  I  have  little  right  to  our 
personal  happiness;  we  are  public  people;  everything  we 
do  is  in  the  glare  of  publicity,  and  this  step  of  yours  will 
blaze  from  coast  to  coast,  a  red  notoriety.  It  is  a  spot 
on  me  I  can't  ever  erase.  There,  they  will  say,  goes  one 
of  the  richest  men  in  the  world,  yet  his  daughter  married 
out  of  her  station.  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Trask,  if  I  am 
candid;  this  matter  is  too  momentous  for  politeness." 

He  paused;  Kirby  and  Mary  were  children,  chided, 
gazing  downward.  Then  he  continued: 

"It  might  be  just  as  well  to  disavow  you  altogether. 
Yet  this  I  don't  propose  to  do.  I  am  sane  enough  to  see 
that  no  good  would  come  of  it.  After  all,  you  are  all  that 
I  have." 

He  was  forced  for  a  moment  to  stop ;  then  he  went  on : 

"At  the  same  time  you  can't  expect  me  to  rejoice  and 
celebrate  and  pour  riches  over  you.  You  can't  expect  a 
handsome  wedding,  a  present  of  a  few  estates,  and  a  vice- 
presidency  for  your  husband.  No;  if  you  persist,  if 
nothing  can  make  you  reconsider  your  rash  action,  why, 
you  will  have  to  go  on  short  rations.  Think  it  over  well. 
Mr.  Trask  will  have  to  work  for  me  just  as  if  he  were  any 
outsider.  He  has  been  getting  five  thousand  a  year. 
I'd  be  willing  to  try  him  on  a  Pittsburgh  job  at  that  salary 
and  give  him  a  chance  to  make  good.  If  he  fails  he  will 


THREE    HARD    HEADS 

have  to  expect  a  cut  in  wages,  a  reduction  in  rank.  If  he 
succeeds,  something  better  may  offer.  And  you,  who  have 
been  used  to  a  golden  flood  of  money,  will  have  to  share 
your  husband's  lot.  This  is  unalterable.  Think  it  over." 

Again  he  paused;  then  ended: 

"  You  have  amazed  me,  Mary.  You  have  made  me  feel 
like  an  old  man.  I  was  unprepared  for  such  things.  But 
I  see  I  never  understood  you;  I  ranked  you  too  high;  I 
made  the  mistake  that  every  parent  makes — thought  my 
child  was  different  from  all  others.  You  have  brought 
me  only  ingratitude  and  bitterness.  But  then  a  father 
has  no  right  to  expect  anything  else  of  his  children  .... 
I  ask  you  once  more  to  think  well." 

Kirby  felt  stricken  by  this  ancient  failure  of  fatherhood ; 
Mary's  lips  twitched.  Then,  after  a  painful  silence,  she 
said: 

"I  am  sorry.     But  there  is  nothing  I  can  do." 

"Very  well,"  said  Jordan,  and  rose.  "Good  night, 
then." 

And  without  the  nightly  kiss  he  turned  and  went  slowly 
up  the  stairs.  He  seemed  bowed  and  broken. 

Kirby  and  Mary  arose  then,  and  in  a  tearful  silence 
clasped  each  other  tenderly. 

"Oh,  my  Kirby,"  said  Mary,  "you  mustn't  fail  me  in 
this  world  now." 

"I  won't,"  he  whispered,  "I  won't." 

They  kissed;  went  to  their  rooms.  And  as  Kirby  sat 
on  the  bed  in  the  dark  listening  to  the  wind  he  felt  a 
strange  oppression.  Felt  now  that  he  had  undertaken  a 
staggering  responsibility;  felt  almost  as  if  he  had  com 
mitted  some  unspeakable  crime.  He  was  awed  and 
humbled. 

Why  was  it  that  success,  when  it  came,  held  so  little 
sweetness  for  him? 

And  there  was  Mary — a  wonderful  woman  who  had 
fought  for  him  and  won  him.  How  could  he  ever  be 
worthy  of  her?  How  make  up  to  her  this  break  in  her 

3" 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

life,  this  sacrifice  of  the  world?  Godhood  almost  was 
demanded  of  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  merely  a  weak 
and  bullish  young  man. 

He  felt  prayerful;  he  felt  like  going  on  his  knees  and 
communing  with  some  power  greater  than  his  own. 
Finally  he  swore  that  he  would  protect  and  love  her  to 
the  end  of  his  days,  and  do  the  utmost  in  his  power 
to  prove  worthy  in  her  eyes". 


XXVIII 

FAME 

WHEN  Mary  came  down  the  stairs  the  next  morning 
she  felt  younger  than  she  had  in  years ;  she  felt  like 
singing  and  dancing,  and  sharing  her  joy  with  others. 
Her  light-heartedness  made  her  light-footed — she  wanted 
to  take  a  five-mile  run  in  the  open  air  along  the  beach. 
All  her  life  seemed  in  transition;  her  early  womanhood 
was  over  and  her  marriage  had  not  yet  begun,  so  she  felt 
free  of  all  bonds,  and  yet  excitedly  expectant.  The 
change  about  to  take  place  was  a  revolution ;  every  habit 
and  responsibility,  even  her  heart,  her  brain,  and  her  very 
body,  were  to  be  subjected  to  mysterious  things.  She 
was  on  the  threshold  of  the  inner  temple  of  a  woman's  life. 
No  wonder  her  exhilaration  had  something  breathless  and 
fearful  about  it,  a  transiency  of  beauty,  a  feeling  that  she 
would  not  live  to  see  her  dreams  realized. 

Like  all  sound  women  she  craved  the  rich  and  tragic 
experiences  of  her  lot,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  love 
was  too  exquisite  to  last,  and  the  thought  of  death  made 
her  tremble. 

"Some  day  Kirby  must  die;  some  day  I  must  die;  one 
of  us  will  be  left  alone." 

The  sadness  of  this  made  the  world  beautiful  and 
precious;  made  Kirby  and  her  love  so  precious  that  she 
hated  to  spare  a  moment  from  him.  And  yet,  through 
all,  bubbled  this  sparkling,  care-free  exhilaration,  this 
laughing  light-heartedness. 

Two  thoughts  were  in  her  mind — to  find  Kirby  and  kiss 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

him  good  morning,  to  dispel  with  a  caress  any  last  doubts 
he  might  harbor,  and  then  find  her  father  and  be  very  good 
to  him,  soothe  him,  fondle  him,  and  coerce  him  to  share 
her  overflowing  happiness. 

In  the  bright  early  light  of  the  clear  Sunday  morning  the 
maid  was  dusting  about  the  hall.  Mary  felt  like  embrac 
ing  the  young  woman ;  she,  too,  was  human  and  knew  love. 

"Mr.  Trask  down?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  and  gone  for  a  walk,"  said  the  maid,  coming  up. 
She  handed  Mary  a  note.  "Mr.  Watts  told  me  to  give 
this  to  you." 

Mary  looked  at  the  envelope,  her  forehead  wrinkled.  A 
fear  clutched  her  heart.  Then  she  read: 

DEAR  MARY, — I  find  it  necessary  to  go  back  to  New  York, 
so  Dr.  Weston  and  I  are  catching  the  early  train.  I  take  it  for 
granted,  of  course,  that  Mr.  Trask  leaves  at  noon  to-day  to  make 
the  night-boat.  Let  me  know  when  you  return. 

Hastily,  J.  W. 

Then  she  really  understood  what  a  terrible  blow  she 
had  inflicted  on  her  father.  He  had  not  felt  able  to  face 
her  and  Kirby;  beaten  and  broken,  he  had  run  away.  A 
tragic  blackness  engulfed  her;  stunned,  she  groped  through 
the  doorway  and  started  off  under  the  pines. 

In  the  intense  silence,  wherein  no  twig  stirred,  she 
heard  bird-notes  and  the  soft  booming  of  the  sea;  the 
heavens  were  a  mild,  silvery  blue,  the  ocean  even  more 
silvery,  and  the  air  was  fragrant  and  balmy.  Then  she 
saw  Kirby  climbing  over  the  rocks  and  ran  toward  him, 
her  heart  bursting. 

He  saw  her,  waved,  shouted  "Mary,"  and  ran  also. 
They  met  in  the  marsh,  and  he  drew  her  close. 

"Oh,"  she  panted,  "I'm  so  glad — glad  you're  here." 

She  handed  him  the  letter,  and  he  read  it,  one  arm  still 
protecting  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  a  child  finding 
shelter  on  his  breast. 


FAME 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  and  turned  and  kissed  her.  She  clung 
to  him. 

"Kirby,"  she  whispered,  "Kirby." 

And  suddenly  joy  overflowed  in  her  again.  They 
laughed  with  each  other.  Impossible  that  her  father  was 
badly  hurt;  impossible  that  any  tragedy  existed  in  this 
love-rich  world. 

"He'll  come  round,"  said  Kirby. 

"I  know  he  will!"  she  exclaimed. 

At  once  thought  of  her  father  was  blotted  out;  their 
youth  was  too  glorious  to  see  beyond  itself. 

They  went  back  to  the  house  and  had  breakfast  alone 
together.  It  was  wonderful. 

"Our  own  house,"  said  Mary. 

They  were  playing  house;  the  fresh  strawberries  were 
delicious;  the  eggs  mellow;  the  coffee  pungent.  Then 
Kirby  refused  more  than  one  lump  of  sugar.  She  de 
murred  over  this  sacrifice. 

"No,"  he  said,  "we  must  both  have  the  same." 

They  walked  about  the  beach  all  morning,  picking  shells, 
digging  in  the  sand,  and  finally  sat  on  the  rocks  together 
and  looked  out  on  the  shimmering  sea.  And  Mary 
planned  and  planned.  Woman-like  she  worked  out  a 
million  details  as  carefully  as  a  bridge-builder,  and  wrought 
a  practical  future.  Man-like  he  listened  amusedly,  won 
dering  why  a  bridge  couldn't  be  crossed  when  they  came 
to  it. 

She  decided  for  early  August  for  the  wedding.  As  it 
was  to  be  small,  and  as  her  father  would  only  be  pained 
the  more  by  crowds  of  friends,  August  was  an  ideal  time. 
"Everybody"  was  away;  the  city  deserted;  their  en 
gagement  would  not  be  made  unpleasant  by  callers  and 
calls  and  social  functions;  Kirby  would  be  spared  these 
unaccustomed  details;  and  besides,  they  would  thus 
have  a  summer  vacation  together  before  the  new  job 
began. 

"We've  a  place  in  the  Adirondacks,"  she  said,  "where 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

we  can  go  camping — live  in  a  tent.  Isn't  that  the  ideal 
honeymoon?  Miles  from  every  one — just  you  and  I  and 
the  wilderness.  Ever  since  we  were  on  the  Giant  I've 
wanted  to  go  off  like  that." 

"With  me?"  asked  Kirby. 

She  looked  dreaming  at  the  sea,  then  at  him. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  "I  wonder  ....  maybe — 
maybe  I  loved  you  even  then  and  didn't  know  it." 

"I  knew  I  loved  you,"  he  said. 

"I'm  glad  we  can't  have  a  big  wedding,"  she  mused; 
"I'm  glad  all  the  red-tape  is  to  be  cut  out.  Imagine  you 
involved  in  such  things!"  She  laughed  merrily.  "My 
big  savage!"  And  she  whispered,  pulling  back  his  hair 
with  one  hand,  "Do  you  love  the  messenger's  daugh 
ter?" 

It  was  romantic  to  pretend  that  she  was  a  poor  girl  and 
was  marrying  a  great  five-thousand-a-year  man  who  was 
going  to  make  her  mistress  of  a  real  house  in  Pittsburgh. 
What  an  adventure! 

"Shall  I  have  a  servant?"  she  asked. 

"Two,  if  you  like." 

"And  will  you  take  me  to  theaters  once  a  month?  And 
buy  me  candy  on  my  birthday?" 

Then  she  kissed  away  every  shadow  of  mockery,  and 
said: 

"  If  you  knew  what  it  meant  to  me  to  go  out  there  with 
you,  and  know  I  must  really  work,  and  that  we  must 
struggle!  I've  been  craving  this  all  my  days — real  life; 
to  feel  and  do  what  most  people  feel  and  do — to  do  what 
my  mother  did — to  grow  with  you,  and  not  be  stopped 
the  way  I  have  been !" 

She  seemed  to  realize  that  engagement  and  marriage  are 
the  woman's  time  of  life;  Kirby 's  emotions  paled  beside 
hers. 

Then  after  dinner,  after  she  had  motored  him  to  the 
little  station,  they  stood,  with  precious  last  words.  She 
was  to  write  or  telegraph  him  when  she  left  for  New  York, 

316 


FAME 

and  he  was  to  come  to  supper  the  evening  she  arrived. 
He  was  to  write  her  the  moment  he  reached  Inwood. 

The  train  loomed  nearer. 

"Oh,  Kirby,"  she  whispered,  looking  almost  pale  for  a 
moment,  "please  don't  die — please  be  careful  of  your 
self!" 

He  mounted  the  rear  platform  and  they  waved  each 
other  out  of  sight.  He  was  excited  and  carefree  himself, 
and  had  the  singular  notion  that  he  would  never  know 
again  what  pain  and  misery  were  like.  It  appeared  that 
all  he  needed  to  keep  him  happy  was  Mary,  and  it  was 
just  a  question  of  how  to  kill  the  next  few  days  until  he 
should  see  her. 

Again  Fortune  had  overwhelmed  him  with  favors — 
Mary,  a  splendid  position,  and  a  future  as  great  as  he 
could  make  it.  What  more  in  the  world  could  a  young 
man  ask?  There  was  only  one  word  to  describe  his  con 
dition — bliss.  Kirby  was  blissful. 

So  when  he  appeared  in  the  office  on  Monday  morning 
he  was  a  radiant,  benevolent,  healthy  young  man,  in  a 
golden  humor.  He  ceased  to  have  enemies;  he  even  went 
in  and  asked  Mr.  Peewee  how  the  widow  woman  was 
coming  along. 

"Oh,"  said  Cropsey,  "we'll  be  spliced  in  a  week  or  two." 

"Lucky  man!"  cried  Kirby,  and  to  himself  he  added 
later:  "After  all,  this  fellow  isn't  so  bad.  Suppose  he 
does  use  cheap  cologne?  He's  a  hard-working,  cheerful, 
industrious  man;  he  doesn't  mope  because  he's  a  dwarf; 
and  he's  going  to  marry  and  probably  have  a  family." 

This  last  thought  gave  him  pause.  A  family!  What 
would  it  be  like  to  be  a  father,  to  have  a  child  of  his  own? 
A  chill  ran  over  him.  All  at  once  the  masculine  notion 
that  he  was  giving  up  a  free  life  and  putting  his  head 
in  a  yoke  pervaded  him.  Frightful  responsibilities  loomed 
ahead. 

Besides,  he  had  still  to  "make  good."  In  a  sense,  he 
was  on  probation;  what  if  he  flunked  in  the  Pittsburgh 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

job?  Old  Watts  was  enough  of  a  Nero  to  give  him  some 
thing  impossibly  hard. 

He  might  have  been  troubled  a  bit  had  he  not  received 
a  letter  from  Mary — the  first  love-letter.  He  read  it  a 
hundred  times,  approximately,  and  was  enchanted  with 
her  use  of  English. 

And  so  for  four  days  golden  peace  brooded  on  the 
Business  Manager.  Then  on  the  fourth  a  perplexed 
office-boy  entered. 

"There's  six  men  out  here  to  see  you." 

Kirby  was  amazed. 

"All  together,  or  each  alone?" 

"All  together." 

"Show  'em  in." 

In  they  came,  bright-eyed  youths.  A  spokesman  ad 
vanced. 

"We're  reporters  from  the  New  York  papers.  We  un 
derstand  that  you  are  reported  engaged  to  Miss  Mary 
Watts." 

Notoriety — Fame!  How  had  it  happened?  Who  had 
dropped  the  word  in  the  ear  of  that  monster — Publicity? 
He  had  a  vision  of  eighty  million  people  throbbing  with 
feverish  concern  over  his  young  life.  He  felt  suddenly  in 
the  sky  with  America  under  him,  the  population  gazing 
raptly  up  at  this  new  star.  "  You're  a  great  man,  Kirby," 
cried  his  heart,  and  he  became  a  little  drunk,  his  chest 
expanded  several  inches,  and  he  was  proud  and  insolent. 

He  almost  babbled  the  truth,  with  a  sudden  desire  to 
take  the  loving  public  into  his  confidence.  What  an 
adventure  to  share  his  joy  with  the  expectant  millions, 
to  know  that  on  the  morrow  black  head-lines  would 
be  printed  on  newspapers  all  over  the  continent,  and 
many  a  bleak  breakfast  made  bright  by  descriptions  of 
gray  eyes,  powerful  head,  strong  jaw,  the  man  who  would 
inherit  the  Watts  millions! 

Kirby  rose. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  he  remarked  in  a  tone  that 
318 


FAME 

indicated  that  he  knew  they  knew,  and  they  knew  he 
knew. 

"That  means  you  are,  then,"  prompted  the  spokesman. 

"Nothing  to  say,"  smiled  Kirby;  "I  can't  speak  for 
publication." 

Of  course  not  to  say  no  meant  yes,  and  the  six  went  out 
with  fired  imaginations. 

Kirby  was  up  before  the  newsman  the  next  morning  and 
rushed  to  the  station  to  catch  the  first  sheet.  He  tucked 
it  under  his  arm  and  went  into  the  woods.  Then  he 
feasted  on  the  food  of  the  gods. 

"  Miss  Watts  Reported  Engaged  " — on  the  front  page,  at 
that — "A  Romance  in  High  Life — Millionaire's  Daughter 
to  Marry  Poor  Young  Man — Jordan  Watts  Refuses  to  See 
Reporters." 

The  greatest  excitement  prevails  in  New  York  society  circles 
over  the  announcement  that  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  Steel 
Magnate  is  to  marry  against  her  father's  wishes  a  man  of  com 
parative  poverty.  This  romance  is  considered  the  greatest 
sensation  in  recent  years,  and  is  the  outcome  of  a  remarkable 
love-story.  The  young  man  has  held  a  position  with  Harring 
ton's  defunct  magazine  and  is  believed  to  be  without  resources. 
His  name  is  Kirby  Trask,  and  he  is  twenty-eight  years  old. 
When  seen  he  did  not  deny  the  reported  alliance. 

•    So  it  went,  and  then: 

Mr.  Watts  refused  to  see  the  interviewer,  but  one  might 
surmise  from  his  care-worn  expression  as  he  passed  out  to  his 
automobile  that  he  does  not  relish  this  match.  It  is  as  yet  too 
early  to  say  whether  he  will  disown  his  daughter  or  not. 

And  there  was  Kirby 's  own  history  in  full — the  debate, 
the  reportership,  clerkship,  secretaryship.  Joyous  Amer 
ican  journalism!  Industrious  reporters!  Surely  the  na 
tion  would  not  die  for  want  of  mirth  and  the  playful  fiction 
of  reported  facts! 

Now,  if  Kirby  had  been  in  his  senses  he  would  have  raged 
and  spit  blood.  But  he  was  not.  He  bought  as  many 

319 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

other  papers  as  he  could  and  gorged  himself  on  his  name  in 
print.  There  it  was — "Kirby  Trask."  At  one  bound  he 
had  leaped  into  the  ages  and  belonged  to  history! 

"That  Kirby  Trask  you  are  writing  about,"  he  told 
invisible  reporters,  "shall  make  history,  too.  Wait! 
Watch!" 

And  was  it  possible  that  he  had  once  walked  the  streets 
of  New  York  in  search  of  work  and  been  denied  right  and 
left?  Why,  these  very  newspapers  that  celebrated  him 
had  once  turned  him  down.  If  they  only  knew,  how  they 
would  kick  themselves ! 

The  only  sobering  thought  was  that  old  Watts  would 
now  be  madder  than  ever — and  it  even  struck  him  that 
Mary,  used  to  publicity,  might  wince  over  these  per 
sonalities. 

But  when  he  returned  to  the  office  he  knew  that  he  was 
really  great.  The  staff  came  round  and  congratulated 
him,  flattered  him,  every  one  who  passed  the  door  ogled 
in,  wide-eyed  with  wondrous  curiosity.  He  had  been 
raised  to  the  seats  of  the  mighty.  Even  J.  J.  stepped  in 
to  shake  hands: 

"My  young  men  always  rise,"  said  J.  J.  "I  am  proud 
to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Trask.  I  am  only  sorry  our  con 
nection  must  end." 

Kirby  bore  it  all  with  remarkable  patience.  In  fact, 
he  was  wreathed  in  smiles.  This  notoriety  was  fame  to 
him. 

And  a  debauch  in  journalism  followed;  day  after  day 
whole  columns  of  gossip  and  conjecture,  of  affirmation  and 
denial,  with  a  lurid  climax  on  Sunday,  when  he  saw  his 
beloved  and  himself  pictured  on  half  a  page  with  a  Cupid 
beneath  piercing  a  money-bag,  and  old  Watts  looking 
sour  on  top.  He  never  forgot  the  green-and-red  head 
line:  "Cupid  Unites  the  Rich  and  Poor:  An  American 
Romance." 

A  paragraph  in  one  of  Mary's  letters  gave  him  pause: 
"Isn't  it  unspeakable?  Why  can't  they  leave  us  alone? 

320 


FAME 

What  business  is  it  of  theirs?  Our  press  is  the  shame  of 
the  world.  But  remember  that  our  love  is  worth  it  all; 
we  can  endure  even  this.  How  you  must  suffer  by  it, 
poor  Kirby!" 

For  a  sufferer  Kirby  had  carried  it  off  pretty  well. 
Neither  appetite  nor  sleep  had  failed  him.  He  had  been 
pretty  well  inflated  with  his  new  station  in  life.  But  now 
suddenly  he  saw  himself  in  a  new  light,  and  felt  slightly 
nauseated.  He  had  been  cheap,  conceited,  a  cad.  For  a 
while  he  was  profoundly  ashamed  of  himself,  and  ceased 
to  watch  the  papers.  And  he  could  never  afterward 
explain  why  the  notoriety  had  charmed  him,  had  intoxi 
cated  him. 


XXIX 

KIRBY   YES-AND-NO 

DURING  the  two  months  that  followed  Kirby  divided 
his  time  between  Inwood  and  New  York.  Luckily 
for  him,  the  business  wound  up  slowly,  and  he  was  allowed 
to  retain  his  position  under  an  easy  pressure  that  per 
mitted  him  to  come  and  go  as  he  pleased.  Thus,  at  least, 
his  days  were  filled  and  passed  rapidly.  And  for  the  sake 
of  the  nights,  and  because  he  began  to  feel  too  keenly  the 
social 'distinction  between  his  changing  self  and  the  Allisons 
and  Brent,  he  took  two  rooms  in  a  small  bachelors'  apart 
ment-house  up  a  side  street  near  the  Watts. 

As  for  Mary  and  her  father,  they  came  and  vanished 
like  summer  storms — now  away  for  a  week,  now  off  for  a 
night  or  two;  and  Mary's  excuse  for  these  absences,  and 
in  fact  for  all  the  actions  Kirby  disliked,  was: 

"This  is  the  first  summer  we  haven't  been  abroad; 
you  see,  you  and  I  have  forced  my  father  to  stay  home. 
And  as  he  doesn't  like  me  to  be  in  the  city  at  all  the  least 
I  can  do  is  to  compromise,  and  come  and  go." 

As  a  result  there  were  times  when  Kirby  saw  nothing 
of  Mary.  Then  the  nights  were  dull ;  he  could  go  up  on  a 
roof -garden  to  snatch  a  little  breeze,  see  the  stars  over  the 
city,  watch  a  dreamy  whirl  of  color  and  light  on  the  stage, 
listen  to  music,  and  drink  and  smoke.  Or  he  could  tramp 
the  glittering  streets,  with  the  city  like  a  ringing  in  his 
ears,  and  the  people  eddying  around  the  lights  or  fanning 
themselves  on  shadowy  stoops  beneath  a  hot  moon.  Or, 
with  perspiring  effort,  he  could  play  cards — a  game  he 
detested — with  an  amiable  young  lawyer  in  the  house. 

322 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

But  there  were  other  times  when  he  saw  much  of  Mary 
— feverish  times,  to  his  amazement.  He  had  expected  the 
natural  intimacy  and  freedom  they  had  known  on  the 
cliffs ;  instead,  it  seemed,  as  a  rule,  impossible  to  be  alone 
with  her.  In  spite  of  her  assertion  that  the  city  would 
be  "deserted"  there  seemed,  not  counting  the  negligible 
millions,  abundant  curious  people  who  broke  in  if  only 
to  eye  these  three  notorious  persons,  to  study  the  mystery 
of  this  triangle,  to  anticipate  the  next  move,  and  to  watch 
the  bold  young  adventurer  who  had  stormed  Olympus. 

Such  people,  and  many  others,  paid  no  attention  to 
Jordan's  attitude,  but  invited  Mary  and  Kirby  together 
to  week-ends,  house-parties,  fetes,  and  sports,  and  they 
began  to  accept  these  invitations,  motoring  out  to  near-by 
places  in  all  directions.  Kirby  demurred  at  first;  he 
thought  he  was  wanted  merely  as  a  freak,  and  he  felt  raw 
among  these  people;  manners  were  an  impossible  acquisi 
tion  for  him,  but  Mary  coerced  him.  It  was  for  her 
father's  sake,  and,  she  said,  laughingly,  "You  might  as 
well  begin  now;  it's  part  of  the  price  of  marrying  me. 
You  can't  escape  altogether." 

So  he  went,  involved  in  a  new  whirl  of  life.  This  ter 
rific  drive  made  his  relationship  with  Mary  feverish  and 
excited;  the  glory  of  their  love  seemed  tarnished  by  this 
speeding-up  and  publicity.  It  seemed  as  if  a  civilization 
of  steam  and  steel  and  electricity  was  annihilating  intimacy 
and  sweetness  and  love.  But  the  freedom  of  this  scurrying 
about  was  wonderful — motors  skimming  the  hills,  motors 
glancing  along  the  waters,  the  dance  of  pony-polo,  the 
blare  and  glare  of  the  carnival;  these  people  were  like 
beetles  darting  over  water.  There  was  the  shock  of 
stimulation  at  each  moment — the  tasting  of  this  and  that, 
the  sipping  of  experiences,  as  if  they  thought  they  could 
have  the  cream  of  life  without  the  milk  beneath. 

A  new  world  for  Kirby;  he  had  seen  it  in  slanting 
glimpses  at  High  Hill;  but  then  he  was  preoccupied  with 
Mary.  Now  he  became  part  of  it — a  curio  in  a  corner, 
22  323 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

with  apathetic  men  and  babbling  women  getting  "his 
views,"  as  if  his  naivete  were  a  new  sport.  In  short,  he 
now  moved  about  at  the  top  of  the  social  pyramid  of 
America,  and  while  in  many  houses  he  met  a  High  Hill 
crowd,  business  and  professional  men,  the  leaders  in 
thought,  the  really  great  in  various  walks  of  life — and 
there  were  many  such — at  others  he  saw  an  admixture  of 
types  he  had  only  read  of  in  newspapers.  Gradually  he 
thought  he  understood. 

This  society  at  the  top,  then,  seemed  to  him  like  a  net 
work  of  sharp  nerves  laid  over  the  raw  flesh  of  the  race: 
down  there  muscle  and  sluggish  blood ;  up  here  sensation, 
speed.  Down  there  the  toiling  thews ;  up  here  the  guiding 
brain.  Jordan  Watts  was  a  very  nerve-center  in  this  net 
work,  with  radiations  of  fine  nerves  enmeshing  a  whole 
city  like  Pittsburgh  in  one  ganglion,  and  darting  here  and 
there  to  tips  in  all  parts  of  the  world — a  fact  brought 
home  to  Kirby  when,  toward  the  end  of  July,  wedding- 
presents  began  to  arrive  from  kings  and  nobles,  statesmen 
and  professional  men,  financiers  and  artists  in  remote 
corners  of  the  globe.  The  nations  paid  tribute  to  the 
American  dynast. 

And  just  as  at  the  bottom  he  had  seen  our  industrial 
civilization  break  down  into  sex-abandon  and  vagrancy 
because  of  want,  so  here  at  the  top  he  saw  the  same  break 
down  because  of  excess.  What  difference  between  Mrs. 
Costigan  and  the  orgies  at  her  house,  the  sex-dance  and 
drunkenness,  and  Bess  with  her  gentlemen  friends  and  the 
dance-hall,  or  between  the  vagrant  on  the  park  bench  and 
the  gilded  vagrant  who  never  soiled  his  hands  with  work 
or  his  brains  with  humanness?  The  idle  poor,  the  idle 
rich — parasites  both. 

And  in  the  average  life  of  rich  and  poor  there  was  the 
same  contrasting  similarity;  the  poor  dulled  by  monotony, 
the  rich  made  neurasthenic  by  too  fierce  a  variety.  At 
the  bottom  an  Edward  Ferguson,  at  the  top  the  man  who 
overworked,  overworried,  labored  stupendously  to  run 

324 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

enormous  industries  and  pile  up  power  and  wealth.  And 
the  wives  of  both  were  dissatisfied,  neither  seeing  much 
of  the  husband,  both  left  idle  and  obscure. 

The  social  cleavage  he  now  began  to  glimpse  was 
monstrous.  Here  was  a  financier  buying  an  old  master 
for  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Here  was 
he  hesitating  over  a  ten-cent  cigar.  There  was  himself  a 
few  years  back  extravagant  when  he  bought  a  five-cent 
package  of  cigarettes  or  paid  a  quarter  for  his  lunch.  And 
his  ten  or  five  cents  was  more  in  proportion  to  his  income 
than  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  the 
financier.  What  lunatic  arrangement  of  the  world  was 
this  ?  Millions  of  weak  bipeds  scrambling  for  a  bite,  and 
here  and  there  some  big  man  corraling  the  others,  seizing 
on  huge  slices  of  the  general  wealth,  and  by  this  wealth 
able  to  buy  power,  able  to  turn  these  others  into  employees, 
and  coasting  about  the  world  above  them  like  the  cloud- 
borne  gods  of  Greece.  And  yet  these  gods  were  human; 
after  all  there  was  a  limit  to  natural  expenditures,  as  hous 
ing,  food,  clothes,  and  amusements.  Part  of  their  rush, 
part  of  the  reason  for  their  sipping  at  a  thing  and  dropping 
it  for  another,  like  a  child  with  too  many  toys,  was  then  the 
mere  need  of  finding  new  outlets  for  their  wealth. 

And  such  folk  set  the  pace  for  all  others,  so  that  it 
seemed,  looked  at  from  this  angle,  as  if  the  whole  United 
States  was  money-mad,  a  million-rush  for  money. 

But  this  vision,  instead  of  steadying  him,  made  him  the 
more  eager  to  rush  after  money  himself.  He  knew  what 
it  meant  to  be  a  drudge;  he  might  as  well  be  among  the 
high.  Besides,  he  belonged  here;  he  could  doubt  no 
longer  that  he  was  out  of  the  ordinary;  that  his  power 
over  others  was  remarkable;  that  his  foresight,  shrewd 
ness,  and  luck  were  extraordinary.  And  as  a  Machiavel 
lian  scheme  had  brought  him  to  these  heights  he  concluded 
that  Machiavellianism  paid;  he,  too,  could  use  the  un 
clean  tools  of  success. 

So  he  adapted  himself  swiftly  to  this  upper  world. 
325 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Walking  the  same  streets  now  that  had  once  seen  him  shy 
and  poor,  atomic  in  his  insignificance,  he  felt  the  gulf 
between  himself  and  the  nameless  population;  he  believed 
that  this  rush  of  humanity  would  soon  be  subject  to  him, 
albeit  they  knew  it  not,  and  that  he  was  the  heir-apparent 
walking  incognito  in  his  capital  city.  Finally,  walking 
seemed  a  bit  plebeian;  he  got  in  the  habit  of  taking  taxi- 
cabs  instead  of  street-cars,  of  wearing  expensive  clothes, 
smoking  expensive  cigars.  He  must  live  up  to  his  new 
station  in  life. 

Yet  all  this  time  Jordan  and  Mary  remained  the  same 
simple  people  they  were.  Kirby,  the  new-comer,  was 
more  aristocratic  than  they.  Mary  smiled  at  him,  under 
stood,  thought  of  it  as  natural  in  an  initiation;  and  knew 
his  power  and  strength  too  well  to  do  more  than  let  him 
indulge  himself.  So  a  mother  watches  her  son's  antics 
in  the  adolescent  period. 

There  was  another  marked  change  in  him;  his  sensitive 
exterior  needed  some  sort  of  protective  shell,  and  as  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  acquire  "manners,"  he  acquired 
a  manner.  This  was  his  remarkable  habit  of  silence,  of 
moving  about  erect,  alert,  but  speechless,  giving  a  yes 
or  no  to  a  question  with  the  impression  of  immense  re 
serves  of  power. 

Butlers,  waiters,  and  other  flunkies  served  eagerly  this 
well-dressed  successful  man,  who  passed  them  as  if  he 
were  unaware  of  their  existence.  And  this  manner  was 
the  making  of  him  in  the  drawing-room.  Not  graced  in 
small  talk,  he  stood  about  grim,  straight,  and  preoccupied, 
as  if  he  were  lost  in  gigantic  thought. 

"Did  you  see  'Tristan  und  Isolde'  last  season?"  a 
young  woman  might  ask. 

"No,"  said  Kirby,  and  that  "no"  implied  that  a  man  of 
such  stupendous  affairs  had  no  time  to  trifle  with  music. 
The  lady  would  be  much  impressed. 

"He's  terrible,"  she  said.  "He'U  break  in  Mary  yet. 
She's  found  her  match," 

326 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

And  she  half  wished  she  was  Mary  herself. 

The  men  saw  power  in  him.  "He'll  gobble  up  the 
business,"  was  their  impression.  Watts  saw  this,  too, 
but  his  grim  thought  was,  "He's  got  to  show  me  first." 

Mary  was  pleased,  if  anything;  she  did  not  have  to  feel 
ashamed  in  taking  him  anywhere.  It  would  be  evident 
to  any  one  that  she  had  picked  the  most  powerful  man  she 
knew. 

"My  Kirby  yes-and-no,"  she  called  him. 

There  were  times,  however,  in  the  publicity  and  ex 
cited  rush  of  these  days,  when  it  seemed  to  Kirby  that 
Mary  had  her  doubts,  that  she  possibly  thought  her  love 
was  a  fancy  of  other  times,  that  she  might  have  been  wrong 
in  opposing  her  father.  But  if  such  doubts  existed  they 
vanished  on  the  rare  evenings  and  afternoons  when  the 
two  were  alone  with  each  other.  Then  each  became  the 
old  self,  the  man  and  woman  who  had  stood  in  the  blow 
ing  daisy-field,  purified  and  holy  with  their  passion. 

On  one  such  evening  Mary  grew  very  intimate,  as  if 
they  were  already  married,  and  showed  him  a  new  dress, 
a  frail  affair  of  blue  and  gold,  holding  it  up  at  arm's  length 
for  his  inspection. 

"Well,  my  master,  how  do  you  like  it?" 

He  was  puzzled. 

"I  can't  tell  till  I  see  it  on  you,"  he  said. 

So  she  flew  to  her  room  and  came  back  dressed  in  it, 
smiling  with  radiant  expectation. 

He  regarded  it  critically. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth?"  he  asked. 

Her  smile  faded. 

"Of  course." 

"Well,  I — I  don't  care  for  the  flouncy  thing  over  the 
shoulder." 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  any  taste,"  she  said,  ruefully. 

She  never  wore  the  dress  again,  and  he  was  dum- 
founded  to  think  that  she  cared  so  much  for  clothes.  She 
was  more  feminine  than  he  had  imagined. 

327 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Another  night  there  was  an  amazing  occurrence.  Mary 
had  been  at  the  old  planning,  pad  on  lap,  pencil  in  hand. 

"But  what,"  she  mused,  "if  our  money  gives  out?" 

This  was  a  serious  question ;  he  was  beginning  to  know 
the  slippery  quality  of  money.  Though  he  still  drew  his 
salary  he  spent  every  cent,  and  his  savings  with  it.  But 
he  answered,  promptly: 

"We  mustn't  let  it." 

She  drew  closer,  took  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  gave  him 
her  tender  gaze,  and  spoke  beautifully,  as  if  she  wanted 
him  to  know  how  totally  she  was  his. 

"There's  my  money,  Kirby.     After  this  it's  yours." 

There  was  nothing  base  in  Kirby  at  the  moment,  so  he 
replied  quickly: 

"No,  no— I  couldn't  think  of  that." 

"But  I  want  you  to,  dear." 

"I  couldn't,  Mary;   really,  I  couldn't." 

"Why  not?" 

Why  did  she  insist?  Couldn't  she  understand?  He 
was  vexed.  His  thought  was  clear  enough,  but  he  ex 
pressed  it  crudely: 

"A  man  oughtn't  to  take  money  from  a  woman." 

She  was  hurt;   began  to  tremble. 

"That's  an  old-fashioned  notion." 

"Well,  it's  mine,"  he  said,  bruskly. 

At  once  she  rose,  a  woman  of  direct  power;  jaw  set, 
eyes  flashing. 

"Why,  you  put  me  to  shame,  Kirby.  I  thought  we 
were  equals;  you  make  an  inferior  of  me." 

He  rose,  too,  hot  all  over.     He  spoke  without  thinking. 

"Why  in  the  world  do  you  take  it  that  way?  Can't 
you  see?" 

Her  face  grew  hard. 

"Why?  Am  I  simply  to  take  from  you,  and  you  never 
to  take  from  me?  I  won't  be  a  parasite,  Kirby." 

"Just  like  a  woman!"  he  thought. 

"Call  it  anything  you  like!"  he  snapped. 

328 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

There  they  stood,  two  stubborn  people,  suddenly 
glimpsing  in  their  relationship  abysmal  depths  full  of 
terrible  things.  It  was  inexpressibly  shocking,  as  if  their 
souls  stood  naked  before  each  other,  raw  with  hate.  What 
was  this  divine  love  that  yet  Revoked  the  snarling  tiger 
in  them?  What  sort  of  a  marriage  would  be  theirs? 

She  became  pale,  as  if  her  heart  were  broken. 

"It's  not  too  late,  Kirby,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  she  gave  him  an  anguished 
glance. 

"Good  night,"  she  murmured,  and  walked  out  un 
steadily.  He  rushed  for  his  hat,  and  went  through  the 
streets  like  a  madman.  It  was  all  over,  he  felt,  and  he 
had  broken  her  heart,  trampled  out  the  light  of  the  world. 
Remorse  consumed  him;  he  writhed  in  it;  could  not 
sleep,  could  not  eat  the  next  day,  and  finally,  in  the  after 
noon,  could  not  stay  away  from  her. 

Then  when  she  came  into  the  sitting-room,  looking 
broken  and  sick  and  sleepless,  and  stood  glancing  at  the 
floor,  he  muttered  in  an  agonized  voice: 

"Mary!     Mary!" 

"What?"  she  asked  low.     "What  more,  now?" 

He  almost  wept. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  forgive  me!     I'll  do  as  you  say." 

"No,"  she  murmured;  "forgive  me.  I  shall  never  ask 
such  a  thing  of  you  again." 

It  was  the  last  surrender  of  her  free  spirit,  as  if  she  knew 
that  her  reason  was  beaten  down  by  this  overmastering 
love.  He  drew  near,  held  out  his  arms,  and  they  rushed 
together,  clinging  to  each  other  in  despairing  love. 

"Kirby,  Kirby,"  she  whispered,  "never  quarrel  with  me 
again.  It  degrades  us  both." 

Their  love  became  wonderful  then;  they  shone  before 
each  other  in  a  whiteness  of  light  that  transfigured  them. 
They  touched  a  height  of  passion  new  to  them.  But 
thereafter  their  natural  candor  was  slightly  blunted;  they 

329 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

knew  that  they  walked  together  on  the  thin  crust  of  a 
crater.  Curiously  enough,  this  made  their  love  more 
precious;  like  the  thought  of  life's  brevity  and  the  death 
that  would  rob  one  of  the  other,  this  peril  made  intensely 
sweet  the  time  that  was  granted  them. 

And  so,  as  the  day  of  the  wedding  drew  near,  their  love 
mounted  and  mounted  until  it  became  a  glorious  and 
terrible  thing.  There  were  moments  when  they  hardly 
dared  kiss  each  other,  when  they  stood  breathless  and 
trembling,  when  it  seemed  that  they  would  never  be 
married,  that  this  love  was  too  exquisite  to  last — a  flame 
that  wrapped  them  together  and  passed,  leaving  ashes  of 
their  lives. 

Now  they  began  to  really  realize  that  soon  their  two 
lives,  coming  out  of  the  diverse  past,  were  to  mingle  in  an 
awful  intimacy  of  body  and  soul,  and  go  on  inextricably 
interwoven,  each  pain  and  joy  inevitably  visiting  both. 
It  meant  a  new  birth,  a  new  life,  a  new  world.  Never 
would  they  be  these  same  two  people  again.  And  so  the 
minutes  grew  long. 

"Five  more  days,  four  more  nights,"  Mary  counted 
with  him. 

An  age  elapsed.  Then,  "Four  more  days,  three  more 
nights."  So  it  went.  They  now  stayed  at  home.  Kirby 
wound  up  his  work.  There  were  no  more  outings,  no  more 
functions.  It  was  a  sacred  preparation  for  each  other. 

It  seemed  to  Kirby  at  this  time  that  he  was  hounded 
by  reporters  and  magazine  writers;  the  newspapers  were 
full  again  with  the  "romance  of  millions";  but  by  now 
he  had  an  aristocratic  contempt  for  publicity.  He  shared 
Jordan  Watts'  decision  —  "The  public  be  damned,"  also 
"This  is  my  business."  He  was  annoyed,  too,  by  an  in 
creasing  number  of  letters  from  cranks  and  charities,  as  if 
they  thought  he  already  was  a  member  of  the  Watts 
family.  Other  letters  came,  too — letters,  as  it  were,  out 
of  the  past,  making  him  pinch  himself  to  see  if  he  were 
still  Kirby  Trask.  One  came  from  Mrs.  Waverley,  a 

330 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

placid  and  tender  "good-by"  note,  saying  he  was  "fit  for 
any  station, "  but  must  remember  what  splendid  traits  he 
had  shown  her;  one  from  Frances,  who  "knew  he  was 
out  of  the  ordinary,"  but  seemed  more  anxious  to  tell 
him  of  a  lovely  girl-baby  and  the  growth  of  Edward's 
business;  one  grandiose  letter  came  from  Bradsley  in 
behalf  of  the  tariff  department;  and  finally  one  from 
Janice": 

"The  Professor  and  I  are  in  wild  raptures.  You  sur 
passed  my  dreams  of  you.  But  did  I  not  know?  ' I  give 
you  ten  years,'  I  told  you.  Why,  it's  only  four.  To 
think  that  my  letter  to  Mr.  Watts  brought  such  a  result. 
Give  my  love  to  darling  Mary.  ..." 

"Social  climber!"  muttered  a  rather  forgetful  social 
climber.  But  he  was  entranced  with  the  mysterious 
changes  of  life.  Ghosts  of  the  past!  With  these  people 
he  once  lived  and  suffered,  obscure  as  they,  but  swiftly  the 
miracle  was  being  consummated,  the  absurd  dreams  of 
youth  realized,  and  the  waif  Aladdin  was  being  wafted 
to  his  palace.  Now,  all  this  dark  past  seemed  ages  ago, 
a  blackness  behind  this  radiance  of  the  present.  He  was 
on  the  eve  of  his  dominion  over  love  and  power. 

Almost  exhausted  with  expectancy  he  took  supper  with 
father  and  daughter  on  that  last  night,  that  night  of 
August  2d.  Because  of  the  throbbing  and  sultry  heat  the 
windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  clash  and  feverish  hum 
of  the  great  city  swept  like  an  exciting  undercurrent 
through  the  hum  of  the  electric  fan  that  blew  hot  draughts 
of  air  in  their  faces.  The  room  was  shadowy  with  the 
late  day,  and  the  three  sat,  hot  and  silent,  in  a  nervous 
clatter  of  plates  and  cutlery.  Each  was  self-absorbed, 
though  now  and  then  Kirby  and  Mary  whispered  some 
thing  meaningless  to  each  other.  Not  once  again  could 
Mary  take  dinner  in  this  home  as  a  mere  daughter;  to 
morrow  she  was  to  become  a  familiar  stranger;  the  strange 
ness  of  this,  the  unreality  of  it,  the  sense  of  loss  and  part 
ing  and  death,  moved  her  almost  to  tears. 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Then  Jordan  began  to  whine  about  the  weather,  in 
timating  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Kirby  and  a  disloyal 
daughter  he  might  be  away  on  the  ocean  and  up  in  the 
North.  Then  in  a  still  more  meaningful  way  he  an 
nounced  that  he  had  hired  a  young  man,  a  social  worker, 
to  take  over  the  philanthropic  work  which  Mary  had 
handled. 

"This  means,"  he  said,  glancing  at  Mary,  "that  I'll 
have  to  give  my  time  and  strength  to  it,  too." 

It  implied  that  the  marriage  was  not  only  robbing  him  of 
Mary  and  breaking  his  pride,  but  also  casting  new  burdens 
upon  his  already  overtaxed  shoulders. 

They  sipped  the  coffee  in  silence.  Then  Jordan  spoke 
again,  glancing  sharply  at  Kirby: 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  in  the  library,  please."  He  never 
addressed  Kirby  by  name;  it  was  impossible  to  call  him 
Mr.  Trask,  more  so  to  call  him  Kirby. 

Both  Mary  and  Kirby  felt  that  some  dramatic  moment 
was  at  hand;  they  glanced  apprehensively  at  each  other, 
then,  with  some  precipitancy,  Kirby  followed  to  the 
library.  Jordan  turned  on  the  desk-light,  took  off  his 
coat;  they  sat  facing  each  other,  silent,  almost  sullen. 
Then  Jordan  spoke  as  employer  to  employee,  in  a  hard,  im 
personal  voice: 

"I  may  not  see  you  alone  for  some  time,  so  I  must  give 
you  directions.  You're  to  be  Assistant  Superintendent  of 
Supplies  in  the  Pittsburgh  office,  the  American  Steel 
Building.  Report  there,  please,  on  or  about  September 
ist." 

Kirby  nodded  coldly;  he  did  not  like  this  return  of 
the  old  feeling  of  being  an  employee;  he  had  outgrown 
that  state,  he  believed.  A  silence  followed.  The  old 
man  seemed  engaged  in  a  struggle  with  himself.  Then 
suddenly  he  drew  out  a  pocket-book  and  pulled  from  i1>  a 
check. 

"Here,"  he  said,  bruskly.     "Expenses  and  furniture." 

Kirby  was  stunned.  In  a  swift  glance  he  saw  the  figures 

332 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

• 

— ten  thousand  dollars.  He  had  never  seen  so  much 
money  in  his  life;  it  was  proof  of  his  new  standing.  His 
temples  began  to  throb.  Of  course  ten  thousand  was 
not  a  munificent  present  from  a  multimillionaire,  but 
from  an  outraged  father,  who  was  also  somewhat  econom 
ical  and  sermonized  on  seventy-five-cent  golf-balls,  it  was 
a  remarkable  gift.  There  were  things  in  the  old  man 
Kirby  couldn't  understand.  It  was  as  if  Watts  were 
compelled  to  be  fatherly  in  spite  of  himself. 

Kirby  was  embarrassed,  as  well  as  dazzled,  by  this 
expression  of  kindliness. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 

Jordan  rose. 

"Never  mind,"  he  snapped.  "Just  remember  Septem 
ber  i  st.  Of  course  great  things  are  expected  of  you.  And 
you  know  our  compact.  No  help  from  me.  Stand  on 
your  own  two  feet  and  make  or  break  yourself — and  your 
wife,"  he  added,  sharply. 

Kirby  nodded  again,  passed  out  and  up  the  stairs.  He 
was  profoundly  stirred.  Mary  was  probably  in  the  front 
sitting-room.  But  the  room  was  in  darkness  as  he 
entered.  Then  a  voice  called: 

"Kirby?" 

"Yes." 

"  Don't  put  up  the  light.     Come  here." 

He  saw  her  dimly  then  at  the  open  window.  He  went 
and  placed  himself  opposite  and  took  her  warm  hands. 
His  voice  was  trembling  with  emotion. 

"Your  father's  given  us  ten  thousand  dollars." 

In  the  silence  at  once  something  tragic  and  yet  benign 
swept  from  her  to  him,  and  when  she  spoke  her  voice  was 
strange,  trembling  with  fear. 

"I  almost  hate  to  leave  father  now  that  the  time  has 
come." 

And  he  began  to  understand,  began  to  realize  the 
solemnity  and  majesty  of  marriage;  the  momentous  hour 
when  his  beloved  was  to  leave  home  and  father,  and  all 

333 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

free  and  familiar  tilings,  to  give  herself  up  to  the  doom  of 
woman,  to  the  pains,  the  agonies,  and  the  fulfilments  of 
a  woman's  life — give  herself  up  utterly,  soul  and  body,  as  a 
sacrifice  to  creative  Nature,  so  that  the  race  might  roll  on 
through  her  and  the  generations  continue,  even  as  her 
mother  before  her,  and  all  the  mothers  of  the  receding 
past.  The  silent  mystery  that  had  evoked  these  two  so 
that  they  sat  here,  man  and  woman,  perfect  growths  of 
brief  passion  and  dream,  was  to  use  them  now  that  like 
creations,  real  and  living  as  they,  might  emerge  through 
them  to  carry  on  the  flame  and  light  to  the  unpeopled 
Future. 

Tides  rose  in  their  hearts,  tides  of  love  and  unselfishness, 
of  reverence  and  humility.  Even  at  the  moment  they 
began  to  detach  themselves  from  the  free  life  of  self,  to  be 
set  as  a  loom  in  the  weaving  of  the  destinies  of  Earth. 
They  were  about  to  become  a  part  of  Creation — slaves  of 
the  Unborn. 

And  through  the  open  windows  came  the  profound 
hum  of  life — fugitive  voices,  vanishing  footsteps,  the 
rattle  of  the  wheels.  In  all  directions  life  palpitated  under 
the  white  night  of  August,  and  they  had  a  feeling  that 
it  was  all  in  process,  that  these  millions  born  of  woman  were 
in  the  throes  of  a  new  creation,  new  millions  crying  and 
babbling  in  the  night.  At  once  the  city,  which  had 
seemed  to  Kirby  a  workshop  of  labor  and  a  garden  of 
wooing,  changed  into  a  vast  home  of  families,  of  fathers 
and  mothers  and  children.  And  they  were  knocking  at 
the  door  of  this  home.  In  them  the  miracle  of  the  genera 
tions  was  about  to  be  fulfilled. 

In  their  silence,  their  hands  clasping,  they  heard  the 
music  of  existence;  they  became  holy  to  each  other; 
and  rising  then  softly,  Mary  drew  him  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  Kirby,"  she  whispered,  "Kirby." 

They  knew  then  that  this  marriage  of  theirs  was  a 
sacrament.  They  spoke  sacred  words. 

"My  husband,"  she  whispered. 

334 


KIRBY    YES-AND-NO 

"My  wife." 

Glorified  they  went  hand  in  hand  down  the  steps, 
kissed,  and  he  left — left  only  to  return  for  her  and  take 
her  for  life. 

Then,  overflowing  with  this  painful  glory,  she  hurried 
to  the  library.  She  confronted  her  father. 

' '  Father !"  she  whispered.     ' '  Father !" 

He  looked  up,  stricken;  she  held  out  her  arms,  and  he 
rose,  and  they  embraced. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  murmured,  fondling  him.  " For 
give  me.  I  can't  help  what  I  am." 

The  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 

"Meg,"  he  whispered  for  the  first  time  in  months. 
"My  Meg." 

They  were  married  the  next  evening  at  six  o'clock. 
And  at  that  moment  their  youth  passed  from  them;  their 
mature  manhood  and  womanhood  began. 


XXX 

THE   LAKE 

AT  4.30  A.M.,  at  the  little  lamp-lit  station  in  the  Adiron 
dack  foothills,  the  heavy  Canadian  Express,  with  its 
ten  vestibuled  sleepers,  pulled  in  with  roar  and  blinding 
headlight  from  the  South,  and  as  the  porters  set  foot 
stools  under  the  steps,  a  man  and  woman,  all  too 
unmistakably  a  bridal  pair,  emerged  from  the  car  "Na- 
coma."  The  man  was  well  built,  with  smooth,  gray-eyed 
face,  straw  hat,  gray  spring  overcoat,  suit-case  in  one  hand, 
satchel  in  the  other ;  the  woman  was  almost  of  his  height, 
supple,  free  in  her  actions,  in  gray  traveling  suit  and 
soft  gray  straw  hat  that  curved  like  a  helmet  to  the  superb 
shape  of  her  head. 

"Fresh  from  the  bandbox,"  muttered  a  porter  to  the 
impatient  conductor. 

Three  stage-drivers  were  shouting  the  places  they 
touched  over  the  hills,  and  held  lanterns  in  their  gloved 
hands  to  light  their  passengers;  a  small  group  of  miser 
ably  sleepy  and  frozen  people  were  pestering  the  baggage- 
master;  and,  save  for  the  spots  of  lamplight  and  a  golden 
splash  from  the  panting  engine,  heavy  night  engulfed  the 
station,  the  dawn  delayed  by  clouds.  The  thin,  bracing 
mountain  air  swept  from  the  cold  storage  of  the  hills. 

A  sleepy,  grinning  chauffeur  approached  the  couple. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trask?  Right  over  here.  Yes,  the 
trunks  came  all  right;  went  up  last  night.  Weather's 
been  stunning,  but  we  sleep  under  double  blankets  at 
night.  Cloudy  to-night,  though.  "Warm  enough  with 
that  robe?" 

336 


THE    LAKE 

They  shivered ;  the  robe  was  cold  to  the  touch,  but  they 
wrapped  close  in  it,  and  drew  together  under  it  for  warmth. 
The  chauffeur  climbed  in,  the  car  jerked  forward,  and  at 
once  the  blackness  swallowed  them.  Up  and  up  they 
went,  borne  with  mysterious  certainty  until  the  dawn  grew 
splendid  above  them;  then  on  through  the  wild  ways 
between  the  sky-hung  blue  ranges.  It  was  finally  noon 
when  the  car  passed  through  the  gateway  of  the  estate 
and  wound  through  a  forest  of  cathedral  pines  to  the 
hunting-lodge — a  rambling  log  building  at  the  brink  of  a 
blue  lake.  Here,  stiff  and  fatigued,  they  alighted,  ate 
lunch,  rested  a  few  moments  and  dressed,  and  when  they 
emerged  they  were  strangers  to  each  other.  For  Kirby 
was  in  khaki,  with  woolen  shirt,  scarf  about  his  neck, 
high  boots,  and  soft  cap;  and  Mary,  also  booted,  had  on 
full  bloomers  of  brown  and  a  sweater  over  her  sailor 
blouse.  They  were  delighted  with  each  other;  both  ap 
peared  more  natural  and  beautiful ;  they  fitted  better  into 
the  wild  environment. 

"This  is  the  only  way  to  dress,"  said  Mary;  "now 
I'm  free!"  And  she  attested  the  fact  by  running  like  a 
young  boy  to  the  canoe  on  the  lake-shore.  Grace,  agility, 
the  fluent  curves  of  a  wild  animal  were  in  her  motions. 
Surely  Eve  had  this  beauty  on  the  first  morning. 

A  hardy  guide,  a  mountaineer  overrunning  with  life  and 
high  spirits,  but  silent  as  the  hills,  now  offered  to  paddle 
them. 

"Everything  ready  for  you  up  to  Moose  Lake.  And  if 
you  run  out  o'  things  you  know  where  to  find  more." 

But  they  preferred  to  go  alone;  so,  like  Indian  and 
squaw,  they  knelt  in  the  light  craft,  and  sped  it  with  easy 
strokes  over  the  still  waters.  An  inverted  canoe,  with 
an  inverted  man  and  woman  hanging  down  toward  blue 
skies  and  wooded  shores,  winged  along  with  them. 

In  twenty  minutes  they  reached  the  eastern  end,  beached 
the  canoe,  carried  it  on  shoulders  through  a  short  cut  in 
the  woods  to  the  waters  above,  paddled  over  these,  carried 

337 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

it  again,  and  came  out  on  Moose  Lake — a  level  sheet  of 
blue,  locked  between  enormous  mountains,  with  forests 
on  either  shore  mounting  like  waves  to  the  peaks. 

They  shot  past  inlets,  under  overhanging  pines,  round 
rocky  headlands,  and  at  every  boat's  length  the  scene 
grew  wilder,  more  remote,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  moun 
tain  tops  engulfed  them  in  the  ages.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
powers  of  nature  stood  overshadowing  them  like  august 
presences,  that  life  and  majesty  and  inarticulate  might 
that  man  calls  God. 

They  felt  reverent,  open,  divine;  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
these  tides  passing  through  them,  as  the  flame  and  light 
of  the  sun  soaks  through  a  tiger-lily,  or  as  the  instincts 
of  mating  and  hunting  sweeps  through  a  leopard  or  the 
lustrous  fish  in  the  waters.  Life  overflowed  them,  love 
for  this  earth  and  for  each  other,  and  joy  that  they  were 
beautiful  fragments  of  this  beauty  and  radiance  and  power. 

"There  it  is — our  home,  my  husband,"  whispered  Mary. 
Behind  a  smooth,  pebbly  shore  on  a  little  cleared  space 
between  pines  stood  the  white  army  tent,  and  a  little  rough 
shack  behind  it  with  wood-stove  and  provisions. 

They  beached  the  canoe,  leaped  out,  drew  it  up  safe  on 
the  shore,  and  they  ceased  by  that  action  to  be  Kirby 
and  Mary  Trask,  becoming  merely  any  two  creatures  of 
the  wilderness,  human  only,  seemingly,  in  their  gifts  of 
speech  and  laughter,  their  power  to  use  tools  and  inter 
pret  the  scene,  and  those  memories  of  the  past  locked  in 
them. 

They  entered  the  large  tent  with  its  cots  piled  with 
army  blankets,  its  utensils  hanging  on  hooks,  its  guns  and 
hunting-knives,  its  wash-stand  and  chairs,  and  the  trunks 
in  the  corners,  and  the  damp  smell  of  the  earth.  Then 
fifteen  minutes  later  they  tripped  out,  waded  into  the  icy 
water,  gasped,  cried  out,  and  flung  themselves  into  the 
lake.  Side  by  side  they  swam  in  that  fluid  fire,  turning 
their  heads  toward  each  other,  laughing  with  exhilaration, 
making  sunny  splashes  with  their  hands. 

338 


THE    LAKE 

When  they  emerged,  shocked,  as  it  were,  by  health  and 
new  life,  and  glowing  all  over,  Mary  loosened  her  long, 
brown  hair,  they  gathered  soft  pine  boughs,  and  lay  down 
on  these  natural  beds,  basking  from  head  to  foot  in  the 
sun.  They  seemed  beautiful  and  fresh  to  each  other, 
natural  as  the  pines  and  the  rocks  and  the  far  eagle  soar 
ing  in  the  blue  heavens;  their  kisses  were  moist  and  new; 
and,  fatigued  after  the  long  day  and  drowsy  with  happi 
ness,  they  fell  asleep. 

It  was  Kirby  who  awoke  Mary  with  a  kiss,  and  when 
they  sat  up  they  saw  that  the  early  twilight  had  come,  the 
sun  shut  off  by  the  bulging  West.  The  air  was  cool,  the 
waters  silent  and  gray,  but  on  the  far  shore  orange  and 
black  and  yellow  lay  on  the  rumpled  lake,  and  a  reddish 
glory  bathed  the  shaggy  mountain-side. 

They  discovered,  then,  primal  hunger — they  could  have 
eaten  herbs  and  acorns.  It  was  an  adventure  to  prepare 
supper,  to  coax  a  blue  smoke  and  a  woodsy  smell  from  the 
dry  brush,  to  open  cans  and  roast  potatoes,  to  experiment 
with  spring  water  and  ground  coffee.  Mary  cooked  like  a 
true  woman,  absorbed  in  a  very  ritual  of  busyness,  and 
Kirby  glowed  watching  her;  she  was  a  perfect  mate  for 
the  backwoods.  The  daughter  of  a  messenger-boy,  the 
granddaughter  of  a  washwoman,  was  in  her  natural 
element.  Was  it  because  she  had  found  some  of  this 
primitive  strain  in  rough,  sensitive  Kirby  that  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  him? 

Then,  sitting  on  the  ground,  they  performed  the  first 
sacred  rites  of  family  life — the  secret  breaking  of  bread 
together.  It  was  a  miraculous  performance;  their  mere 
eating  a  sacrament,  sign  of  their  ever-recurring  union  with 
Nature,  with  life,  that  flowing  through  them  which  was  to 
become  dream,  thought,  love,  and  action,  as  water  turns 
to  steam.  What  could  bind  them  more  in  one? 

After  supper  they  washed  the  tin  plates  in  the  lake,- 
and  as  the  rapid  darkness  gathered  and  the  woods  began  to 
whisper  and  moan,  to  creak  and  crack,  and  a  wood-owl 

23  339 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

hooted  plaintively  in  the  distance,  they  built  a  fire,  and 
in  the  jumping  gold,  which  made  vivid  the  crinkled  bark 
of  trees,  and  under  the  lost  swaying  tree-tops  they  leaned 
through  the  shadows  together,  arms  round  each  other,  and 
watched  the  flames,  pushed  on  fresh  branches,  silent, 
enchanted,  savage.  The  stars,  like  watchers  of  the  uni 
verse — now  that  the  blue  veil  of  the  sky  was  withdrawn 
from  Earth's  face — drew  in  their  millions  to  eye  these 
dreamers;  lake  water  lapped  the  pebbles;  the  juicy 
firewood  snapped  and  sparked;  the  mountains  whispered 
across  the  waters;  the  peaks  dropped  dew  through  the 
moaning  branches. 

And  what  was  civilization  now  but  a  drop  of  excited 
whisky  fallen  on  that  pellet,  Earth,  that  winged  serene 
among  the  rolling  stars?  They  two  had  escaped;  one 
with  the  star-waves  of  the  skies,  hugged  close  to  the 
breast  of  their  Mother,  Nature,  inexpressible  things 
mounted  to  their  lips  and  changed  into  Silence.  Silence 
alone  could  express  the  mountains  and  the  stars  and  their 
beating  hearts. 

The  fire  burned  low.  They  became  drowsy  again  in 
the  thin  air  of  this  high  altitude. 

"We  must  sleep  under  the  stars,"  whispered  Mary. 

And  so  their  couch  was  dew-drenched  pine  boughs, 
their  walls  the  mountains,  their  roof  the  stars,  their  floor 
the  Earth  .... 

The  days  that  followed  were  the  happiest  in  their  brief 
life.  Restless  things  were  put  by,  the  world  erased,  and 
there  was  in  all  space  just  these  two,  the  naked  Adam 
and  Eve  facing  the  universe.  The  primal  things  brought 
ineffable  joy — the  finding  of  food,  the  cooking  and  eating, 
the  lying  flat  on  the  ground  and  lapping  up  sparkling 
spring  water,  the  pure  sleep  of  starry  nights,  the  swimming 
in  the  lake,  the  shelter  in  the  storm.  Then  there  were  the 
changing  visions  of  the  day — sunrise  over  the  eastern 
woods,  cloud  and  sun  at  noon,  the  orange  and  black  of 

340 


THE    LAKE 

sunset,  with  perhaps  a  lonely  deer  come  to  the  lake  to 
drink,  the  run  in  the  woods  in  the  bracing  morning,  the 
still  afternoon  when  they  read  together  on  a  rocky  head 
land. 

They  fished  and  hunted.  Kirby  was  awkward  with  a 
gun,  but  Mary  was  a  crack  shot,  and  brought  down 
partridges  with  ease.  The  fresh  meat  and  fish  added  a 
delicious  variety  to  their  canned  goods  and  potatoes. 

One  afternoon  they  climbed  the  mountain  behind  them, 
carrying  blanket-knapsacks  over  their  shoulders,  and  after 
four  hours  they  stood  on  the  bald  peak  and  had  a  view  that 
seemed  to  span  half  the  world — mountain  ranges,  hill- 
locked  lakes,  wooded  valleys.  Here  they  slept  and  the 
winds  of  dawn  awoke  them,  and  in  the  gale  they  saw  the 
splendor  of  the  sunrise. 

Another  afternoon,  cloudy  and  blowing,  they  were  out 
on  the  lake  when  a  squall  blew  up,  waves  lashed,  and  they 
nearly  upset.  Then  Kirby  took  charge,  as  in  the  snow 
storm  on  the  Giant,  showed  his  man's  strength  and  Mary 
her  woman's  obedience  and  trust,  and  they  came  ashore 
safely.  There  was  something  glorious,  however,  in  this 
peril  which  made  the  man  protect  the  woman. 

A  few  mishaps  occurred,  like  rinding  the  matches  wet 
in  the  morning  and  having  to  spread  them  on  a  rock  to 
dry;  or  the  evening  Mary  spoiled  the  supper;  or  the 
sultry  night  when  mosquitoes  and  a  large  variety  of  other 
insects  kept  them  tormentedly  awake;  or  the  time  when 
they  heard  a  rumble  in  the  night  and  thought  of  panthers ; 
and  the  evening  when  Kirby  cut  his  thumb  and  Mary 
ministered  to  him. 

One  afternoon  Mary  suggested  as  a  lark  that  they  go 
back  and  dress  in  city  clothes  and  motor  over  to  Warren's, 
a  ten-mile  distant  summer  resort.  They  did  this,  feeling 
stiff  and  confined,  and  when  they  passed  golf-links  and 
tennis-courts  and  drew  up  at  the  fashionable  hotel,  and  a 
friend  spied  them  and  brought  others,  they  felt  black  with 
unhappiness.  Nature  had  evoked  in  them  a  love  for  all 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

things,  and  given  them  a  natural  manner,  but  enclosed 
by  these  artificial  gossipers,  scandal-mongers,  and  this 
glib-tongued  gaiety  they  felt  diffident  and  constrained. 

"Oh,"  whispered  Kirby,  "let's  get  back." 

So  they  fled  back  to  paradise. 

What  amazed  them  these  days  was  the  newness  they 
continually  found  in  each  other.  Kirby  sometimes 
flashed  into  wit,  a  thing  he  seemed  incapable  of;  once  he 
sang  out  loud;  and  at  rare  moments  he  showed  chivalric 
tendencies  truly  alarming  in  such  an  unmannerly  fellow. 
He  also  developed  ability  as  a  cook. 

But  these  newly  discovered  attributes  were  as  nothing 
to  the  changes  in  Mary.  She  became  a  chameleon  of 
magic  variety.  She  might  sit  down  in  mock  despair,  rub 
her  eyes,  and  wawl  and  howl  like  a  baby ;  or  she  stood  at 
sunrise  on  the  rock  imperial,  regal,  a  frozen  queen ;  or  she 
grew  tender  and  grave,  a  large-hearted  mother  for  her 
wild  boy;  and  then  at  times  she  was  the  light-footed  girl 
running  along  the  beach.  But  most  amazing  of  all  was 
the  revelation  of  a  Bacchantic  streak  in  her. 

She  had  found  that  by  some  accident  a  long  string  of 
pearls  had  been  packed  in  the  trunk.  She  took  these 
out  one  afternoon  and  studied  them. 

' '  Rubbish !"  she  said.  ' '  Kirby,  see  the  baubles !  Shall 
I  drop  'em  in  the  lake?" 

She  arose  as  if  she  really  meant  to  do  so.  He  stopped 
her. 

"Mary!" 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried.  "Into  the  lake  with  these! 
Down  with  civilization!" 

They  struggled,  she  broke  loose,  ran  out  on  the  rock 
and  held  them  high  over  the  lucid  waters. 

Kirby  shouted: 

"Quit  that,  Mary!" 

Then  she  turned,  laughing: 

"But  savages  wear  pearls,  don't  they?  Wait.  Some 
342 


THE    LAKE 

day  I'll  show  you  that  I'm  a  savage,  too.  Or  maybe  one 
of  the  dancing-girls  of  the  Sahara.  The  blood  of  the  East 
runs  warm  in  my  veins." 

That  night  was  exceptionally  windy,  unusually  dark. 
Boughs  clashed ;  they  heard  the  rending  of  dead  branches ; 
all  up  the  mountain-side  they  could  imagine  a  massacre  of 
the  Indians  that  once  paddled  these  waters,  footed  these 
hills.  Cries,  groans,  shrieks  echoed  over  the  lake,  and 
their  camp-fire  blew  back  and  forth  with  a  demon-dance 
of  shadows.  They  sat  huddled  together,  feeling,  in  spite 
of  their  proximity,  an  elemental  fear. 

"B-r-r-r!  how  black  it  is!"  said  Mary.  "The  primal 
night.  I  think  I've  never  seen  darkness  before." 

There  was  only  the  shadow-dance,  with  a  ghostly  arm 
of  a  tree  here  and  there  waving  its  leafy  hands,  and  each 
other's  strange  firelit  faces  and  shadowy  forms.  Wild 
animals  or  savages  seemed  crowding  beyond  the  light, 
waiting  and  watching.  Their  loneliness  was  terrifying. 

"Eyes  in  the  night,  eyes  everywhere!"  wailed  Mary  in 
a  sudden  singsong  voice,  as  if  she  were  one  of  the  Three 
Weird  Sisters  in  "Macbeth."  Her  own  eyes  seemed  wild, 
glittering  as  they  were  with  the  blowing  flames.  She 
shivered;  Kirby  felt  haunted.  Not  only  the  night,  but 
this  woman,  made  him  creepy. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "We'd  better  sleep  in  the  tent 
to-night." 

They  went  in;  the  flap  smote  against  the  canvas  side 
like  a  sail  in  a  storm ;  rushes  of  clamorous  air  eddied  about 
their  feet,  and  the  loud  night  smote  and  smote  again. 
But  when  they  were  ready  for  bed  Mary  suddenly  seized 
Kirby  by  the  shoulders.  She  laughed  strangely. 

"Go  out  and  pile  up  the  fire;  make  it  blaze — blaze, 
and  wait  for  me." 

"Mary!"  he  exclaimed.    "What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"The  East!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  caliph,  do  as  I  bid  you, 
or  I  shall  cut  your  throat  when  you  sleep  at  my  side 
to-night." 

343 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

Her  voice  and  manner  were  blood-curdling.  He  stood 
dazed. 

"Now,  see  here — " 

"Oh,  caliph  of  Bagdad,  pay  heed  to  your  favorite." 
And  she  began  to  push  him  out.  Then  she  whispered, 
excitedly,  "For  my  sake,  Kirby." 

He  went,  aghast.  He  was  a  three-dimensioned  man, 
and  here  was  a  woman  going  off  suddenly  into  the  fourth 
dimension.  Most  natural  for  a  woman;  yet  Kirby,  the 
man,  was  appalled.  Besides,  he  was  frankly  frightened 
by  this  night,  and  to  step  out  into  the  naked  dark  was  a 
fiendish  adventure.  He  rushed  to  the  fire,  and,  looking 
neither  to  left  nor  right,  piled  it  high  and  poked  it  into  a 
leaping  blaze.  He  felt  as  if  the  night  were  jumping  on  his 
back,  especially  when  he  squatted  and  tried  to  strain 
eyes  toward  the  tent.  Solid  blackness  that  way,  and 
every  other,  too.  There  was  no  Mary. 

Then  above  the  night  noise  he  heard  her  chanting  a 
fierce  love-song,  and  from  the  blackness  leaped  a  glorious 
Eastern  apparition.  Her  long  hair  was  down  her  back, 
over  her  shoulders,  and  blew  wild;  the  necklace  of  pearls 
was  bound  about  her  forehead,  fell  over  her  breast; 
a  tinted  silk  scarf  streamed,  and  she  had  on  only  the  white 
nightgown  and  moccasins  on  her  feet. 

He  sat,  enchanted;  and  then  the  night  passed  into  her, 
and  she  began  to  chant  and  dance  in  utter  abandon,  the 
fierce  flames  flashing  now  and  then  her  dark  eyes,  her 
wonderful  face,  and  changing  the  nightgown  to  some 
thing  flaming  and  undulant,  wrought  of  soft,  white  fire. 
The  whole  body — the  waving  arms,  the  curving  hands, 
the  striding,  lifting,  leaping  feet,  the  fluid  robe  and  blow 
ing  hair — all  blended  into  one  wild  harmony  of  fire  and 
beauty,  as  if  the  wildness  and  windy  glory  of  the  Bac- 
chantic  night  had  come  together  in  this  passionate  dancer. 

He  was  entranced,  bewitched;  he  had  not  dreamt  that 
he  was  married  to  Bagdad  and  Beni-Mora.  They  seemed 
to  return  to  some  other  incarnation,  when 

344 


THE    LAKE 

I  was  a  king  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  Christian  slave. 

Only  this  wasn't  Christian;  it  was  Mohammedan  or 
Hebraic. 

Then  passing  from  shadow  to  fire,  from  fire  to  shadow, 
chanting  loud  and  louder  her  fierce  song,  bowing  before 
him,  and  dancing  with  head  thrown  back  and  arms  aloft, 
she  gave  a  great  cry,  and  vanished  in  the  night. 

He  followed,  a  little  demented,  a  little  delirious  per 
haps,  but  when  he  came  into  the  lamp-lit  tent  she  was 
already  sitting  before  the  cracked  mirror  combing  her 
hair,  and  her  face  was  grave,  almost  tragic. 

He  stood,  looking  at  her,  more  dazed  than  ever  by  this 
new  change.  Then  she  turned  to  him  tearful  eyes. 

"Oh,  Kirby,  Kirby,"  she  said,  tragically,  "and  in  two 
days  we  go  back.  We  go  back — I  wish  I  knew  how  to  cry." 

Two  days  later  then  they  broke  camp  in  Eden.  Mary 
was  sorrowful. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "must  this  be?  Slaves!  that's  what 
we  are!  Slaves!" 

It  was  true.  The  world,  after  all,  enclosed  even  Eden, 
and  those  angels  of  the  flaming  sword — Necessity  and 
Convention — drove  them  out  of  paradise.  Possibly  to 
Mary,  more  than  to  Kirby,  had  come  a  glimpse  of  what 
life  might  be  for  untrammeled  human  beings,  of  what 
could  happen  on  this  earth  if  love  ever  really  had  a  chance. 
She  never  forgot  this;  it  became  part  of  her  faith  for  the 
future,  her  vision  of  the  new  world  to  be. 

But  Kirby,  alas!  was  a  man.  Having  come  over  the 
hills  like  a  hunter  and  seized  his  mate  he  found  that  he 
could  not  live  on  love;  that  he  began  to  weary  of  long 
days  and  nights  of  woman;  that  he  feared  that  his  nature 
was  softening  under  this  drench  of  feminism.  He  began  to 
crave  action,  work,  the  world;  he  wanted  once  more  the 
hard  masculine,  the  excitement,  and  the  lights. 

345 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

And  now  again  among  the  dead  mountains  he  began  to 
dream  of  empire,  of  the  dominion  he  was  to  carve  out 
for  himself;  of  the  living  people  he  was  to  manipulate,  the 
great  creative  world  he  was  to  make  greater.  He  was, 
after  all,  Kirby  Trask;  he  had  his  work  to  do;  he  was  a 
creator  and  lusted  to  sweat  from  his  brain  and  build  with 
his  hand  some  new  miracle.  Recreated  by  this  return  to 
Nature,  his  brain  flushed  with  new  energy,  he  felt  ready, 
primed  for  the  fight. 

And  yet  when  these  two  left  the  wilderness  they  were, 
both  of  them,  clear-eyed  and  gentle,  kindly  and  patient 
human  beings.  So  much  had  Nature  and  love  done  for 
them.  But  swiftly  civilization  shut  these  spiritual  pores 
and  changed  them  again  to  the  mannered,  abrupt,  domi 
neering  people  they  had  been  before.  It  was  inevitable, 
if  only  to  protect  themselves;  railway-cars,  conductors, 
candy-boy,  screaming  children,  scolding  parents,  curious 
strangers,  dirt,  smoke,  speed,  grated  against  them,  shocked 
them,  cut  them  off. 

"I  hate  it  all!"  whispered  Mary.  "It's  a  dusty,  dirty, 
noisy  world!" 

New  York  was  worse — a  thunder  and  glare  and  rush 
of  humanity  that  made  the  nerves  raw.  Both  lost  their 
temper  in  the  hotel  that  night. 

But  the  next  night,  boarding  the  Pittsburgh  Express, 
they  were  thoroughly  civilized  again,  eager  and  alert, 
ready  for  defense  and  offense,  the  powerful  citizens  of  old. 

And  Mary  again  was  eager  for  the  great  adventure  of 
running  a  family  on  five  thousand  a  year,  and  Kirby  for 
the  supreme  battle  of  his  life. 

They  sat  late  in  the  little  state-room,  an  excited  couple. 
Kirby  spoke  with  fervid  power. 

"New  York  is  the  financial  center  of  our  civilization, 
Pittsburgh  the  industrial  center.  Pittsburgh  is  the  flare- 
back  of  New  York;  behind  the  skyscrapers  the  fires  of 
steel;  behind  the  office  and  factory  drudges  the  laborers 
in  the  mill;  behind  the  metropolis  her  flaming  background. 

346 


THE    LAKE 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  and  Mary  listened  raptly,  the  wife 
eager  to  see  her  husband  following  a  great  vision.  "  Pitts 
burgh  is  the  industrial  mother;  it's  she  that's  given  birth 
to  our  steel  and  steam  civilization.  And  we're  going  back 
to  her  vitals,  where,  in  smoke  and  flame  and  sweat,  Steel 
is  born." 

And  they  fell  to  dreaming  wonderful  dreams :  Mary,  how 
she  was  going  to  run  the  house,  be  a  real  wife,  and  keep 
Kirby  to  his  best;  Kirby,  how  he  was  going  to  smash 
into  the  business  and  make  it  hum  about  his  father-in- 
law's  ears.  These  two  young  people  tried  hard  to  see  into 
the  mysterious  future,  to  get  a  hint  as  to  whether  that 
tornado  of  life  that  had  swept  them  to  the  top  and  clashed 
them  together  was  to  go  on  lifting  them  or  drop  them  in 
the  dust.  Real  peril  confronted  them  they  knew;  real 
work,  real  pain;  they  must  go  through  fire  and  water 
together;  sickness  might  delay  them,  death  betray  them. 

They  felt  almost  fear,  and  embraced  each  other,  the 
brown  and  gray  eyes  close  together. 

"Whatever  comes,"  said  Mary,  "we're  together,  Kirby; 
we  have  each  other." 

Swiftly  the  mighty  train  rolled  over  a  third  of  a  conti 
nent  in  the  night,  bearing  these  two  to  their  supreme  tests 
— whether  their  love  could  outlive  dusty  life;  whether  this 
man  could  be  one  of  the  few  who  become  masters  of  the 
world. 

And  shortly  before  dawn  Kirby  pulled  up  the  shade  and 
looked  out.  At  once  he  was  shot  with  thrilling  triumph. 
He  was  back  in  the  smoking  compartment  with  the 
traveling  salesman.  They  were  speaking  of  the  mills,  and 
the  salesman  said: 

"Goodness,  they're  all  his  ....  except  the  piker  in 
dependents." 

And  a  lonely  adventurer  dreamed  then  that  those  mills 
might  yet  flame  for  him,  a  night  advertisement  in  the 
skies  of  America,  and  travelers  would  say: 

"Sure  ....  Kirby  Trask  .  ...  he  owns  'em  all!" 
347 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

For  right  out  there  again  that  vision  shone  and  passed, 
swallowed  in  darkness ;  the  Bessemer  converter  showering 
up  a  swirl  of  golden  snow,  while  all  the  waterside  flamed, 
and  the  smokes  were  lit — the  sublime  fire-spectacle  of 
America.  Could  he  be  that  same  Kirby?  For,  behold! 
the  miracle  then  dreamed  was  already  beginning  to  be 
accomplished,  just  as  those  mills  had  once  been  conjured 
into  existence  by  the  dreams  of  Watts  and  his  associates. 

Kirby  thrilled;   felt  drunk;   his  heart  leaped. 

"I  am  going  to  my  kingdom,"  he  told  himself;  "I  am 
going  to  my  kingdom." 


XXXI 

THE   MACHINE 

THEY  took  a  brick  house  in  the  East  End,  about 
twenty  minutes'  ride  to  the  office  on  Pittsburgh's 
atrocious  trolley  system.  As  one  of  the  conductors  told 
Kirby: 

"It  don't  go  by  electricity  at  all;  it  goes  by  fits  and 
starts." 

Roughly  speaking,  the  map  of  Pittsburgh  looks  like  an 
exaggerated  profile  of  a  man's  face,  with  the  Allegheny 
sloping  over  his  forehead  and  the  Monongahela  running 
around  his  chin.  His  nose,  then,  at  whose  fine  tip  the 
two  rivers  merge  into  the  Ohio,  is  the  skyscraper  district, 
and  it  appeared  to  Kirby  that  the  trolley-cars,  running 
in  over  the  bridges  and  from  the  back  country  and  meeting 
in  a  m£lee,  caused  a  congestion  in  this  nose,  as  if  the  city 
had  a  cold.  Then,  besides,  the  whole  town  sneezed  and 
snuffled  soot.  Soot!  Lace  curtains,  table-linen,  collars, 
cuffs,  ears,  mouths,  noses,  hair,  the  houses,  and  the  side 
walks  received  daily  their  delicate  coating. 

"It  looks  like  rain,"  said  Kirby  on  the  third  day  after 
arrival. 

"No,"  said  Mary;    "it's  only  Pittsburgh." 

Yet,  like  a  man,  he  nevertheless  carried  an  umbrella. 
At  first  he  changed  his  collar  thrice  daily,  and  washed  him 
self  every  half-hour.  Then  he  agreed  with  Tomlinson, 
the  Supply  Superintendent: 

"It's  a  waste  of  time  to  wash  in  Pittsburgh." 

On  some  days  a  ghostly  haze  was  in  the  air,  making  the 
349 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

cliff-like  streets  fade  into  vague  distances,  and  the  build 
ings  loom  disconsolate.  Kirby  found  that  it  was  only 
the  Steel  City  trying  to  smoke  herself  out. 

Sometimes  at  night  the  blackened  heavens  flashed  with 
lurid  glare,  as  if  a  near-by  city  were  afire.  Kirby  dis 
covered  that  it  was  only  the  mills  flaming  with  the  night 
shift. 

Girdled  with  mills  and  mill-towns,  Pittsburgh  labored 
day  and  night,  and  it  seemed  to  Kirby  that  work  was  in 
the  air.  Everybody  worked  in  Pittsburgh.  Coal-barges 
floated  on  the  oily  rivers  under  the  dirty  suspension 
bridges;  freight-yards  pre-empted  the  shores;  two  rail 
roads  cut  through  the  heart  of  the  town;  and  from  every 
height  one  could  see  stacks  of  pipes,  rolling  smoke,  flutter 
ing  steam.  On  these  numerous  heights  stood  sooty  man 
sions;  in  the  hollows  beside  them  clung  shanties  and 
shacks  on  the  hillside,  with  garbage  and  tin  cans  and  dirty 
children  rolling  down  to  the  bottom.  And  the  people  in 
the  mansions  and  the  people  in  the  shanties  labored  at 
an  unearthly  pace. 

Why?  Because,  thought  Kirby,  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do.  Old  Jordan  and  his  competitors  had  evidently 
not  been  intent  on  building  a  Coney  Island  city;  they 
had  tolerated  churches,  they  had  insisted  on  libraries,  even 
a  public  park,  and  four  theaters  had  crept  in  with  road 
companies  that  had  ceased  to  amuse  New  York.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  saloons  and  the  red  light  district, 
Kirby  thought,  down-town  would  have  died  the  death 
every  supper-time. 

It  appeared  to  him,  too,  that  many  of  the  people  he  met 
worked  themselves  stupid  and  got  little  joy  out  of  seeing 
one  another.  At  least  such  social  life  as  he  and  Mary  at 
first  penetrated  was  remarkably  like  the  atmosphere — the 
men  smoked,  the  women  inhaled. 

This,  then,  was  the  bright  paradise  that  he  and  Mary 
entered. 

Kirby  was  the  first  to  feel  the  shock.     His  superior 


THE    MACHINE 

officer,  Tomlinson,  was  a  skinny,  black-eyed  fellow,  with 
black  hair,  black  mustache,  and  black  broadcloth  clothes. 
He  was  a  tartar  of  a  boss.  At  nine  sharp  the  eighth-floor 
offices  were  set  humming,  and  Kirby  sat  in  a  shadowy 
corner  and  became  a  clerk  again.  He  could  not  dodge 
the  fact.  His  job  was  to  compare  estimates,  check  up 
lists  of  needs  sent  in  by  the  mills,  and  do  all  the  dirty 
figuring  while  Tomlinson  did  the  brain-work. 

Then  Tomlinson  would  ask  him  to  write  letters  like  this : 

"Please  ship,  f.  o.  b.,  carload  lot,  etc." 

It  reminded  him  of  melancholy  Guthrie  in  the  shorthand 
school  with  his  interminable : 

"In  reply  to  your  favor  of  the  26th  ult.  we  beg  to  say 
that  carload  lots  of  lumber,  etc." 

Supplies!  supplies!  This  was  great  work  for  the  son- 
in-law  of  a  multimillionaire,  for  a  young  aristocrat  who 
had  been  silent  and  terrible  at  house-parties,  broken  the 
will  of  a  Jordan  Watts,  been  on  the  front  page  of  news 
papers,  and  lived  in  taxicabs!  He  saw  now;  the  old 
fellow  was  shrewd,  was  punishing  him,  forcing  him  down, 
preparing  to  break  him.  His  feeling  of  outraged  dis 
illusionment  was  not  softened  either  by  Tomlinson,  who 
treated  him  like  any  green  employee,  saying,  sharply,  for 
instance: 

"Brace  up  on  your  addition,  Mr.  Trask.  This  won't 
do  at  all.  Primary-school  mistake.  Don't  you  know  how 
much  nine  and  seven  make?" 

A  powerful,  silent  manner  was  of  no  help;  not  all  the 
silence  in  the  world  could  make  nine  and  seven  nineteen. 
He  noticed,  too,  that  while  the  other  employees  eyed  him 
curiously  they  seemed  aware  of  old  Watts'  displeasure, 
and  accepted  the  fact  that  they  could  treat  him  as  one  of 
themselves.  It  was  the  bitterest  day  he  had  spent  in 
months.  He  agreed  with  the  statement  of  one  of  the  local 
ministers : 

"Children  are  damned,  not  born,  in  Pittsburgh." 

"And  they  stay  damned,"  added  Kirby,  "and  damn 
35i 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

every  one  else.  It's  a  one-horse  provincial,  blue-law, 
filthy,  sweaty  town,  and  I  hate  it." 

After  the  great  free  life  of  his  loved  sea-city,  with  her 
nights  and  her  lights  and  her  changeful  immensity,  this 
manufacturing  town  seemed  sordid  and  petty  enough. 
He  had  been  tricked,  defrauded,  like  a  police  officer  sent 
from  Broadway  to  some  lonely  suburb.  There  was  no 
future  in  this  work.  He  might  almost  as  well  have  stayed 
with  the  Continental  Express  Company.  Here  at  the 
top  he  found  an  underling  was  just  an  underling,  as  much 
a  part  of  the  routine  and  the  rut  as  the  meanest  laborer. 
Only  the  owners  were  exempt,  and  they  lived  in  New  York. 
In  fact,  as  he  shortly  discovered,  Pittsburgh  was  in  some 
ways  a  hired  city — a  city  peculiarly  of  employees. 
Bankers,  business  men,  newspaper  editors,  mill  managers, 
skilled  workers,  common  laborers — many  of  them — were 
in  the  employ  of  the  Jordan  Watts  who  had  gone  to  New 
York.  These  absentees  had  hired  a  city  to  turn  out  their 
dividends. 

This,  then,  was  the  matrix  city  of  civilization — a  ma 
chine  of  metal  and  flame  geared  to  human  machines  and 
all  running  together  smoothly  and  turning  out  Steel. 

He  went  home  that  night  in  a  hot  temper,  and  when  he 
unlocked  the  door,  and  Mary  came  tripping  down  the 
stairs  to  kiss  and  welcome  him,  as  a  new  wife  should,  he 
greeted  her  almost  furiously. 

"By  heaven,"  he  said,  "I  won't  stand  for  it!" 

"For  what?" 

"  This  job  of  mine.  It's  clerk's  work.  Your  father  has 
played  us  a  low-down,  dirty  trick." 

She  spoke  a  little  sharply: 

"Run  up  and  wash,  Kirby.  We'll  talk  this  over  at 
supper." 

When  he  came  down  he  found  her  waiting  in  the  little 
dining-room.  The  cloth  shone  with  wedding-present 
silver;  pictures  of  the  same  brand  hung  on  the  wall; 
everything  was  elaborate  save  the  furniture,  which  was 

352 


THE    MACHINE 

severely  simple.  And  Mary  had  put  a  bunch  of  sweet- 
peas  on  the  table.  Evidently  she  had  spent  much  time 
to  make  this  meal  sweet,  to  please  and  soothe  her  spent 
business  man.  Now  she  stood  there  looking  at  him 
gravely,  her  heart  hurt  by  this  failure  on  his  part  to  make 
the  home-coming  tender  and  beautiful. 

He  sat  down  with  a  jerk,  ate  nervously  and  distractedly. 
Suddenly  he  put  down  his  soup-spoon. 

"Now  see  here,  Mary,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  know  I'm 
simply  bursting.  Why  don't  you  say  something?  You 
sit  there  as  if  I  didn't  exist!" 

And  this  was  the  Kirby  of  Moose  Lake !  Her  forehead 
seemed  to  stand  out  with  power,  her  eyes  met  his,  and  she 
spoke  with  her  masterful  incisiveness. 

"Tell  me,  then.     What  is  this  job— exactly?" 

"What?  I  sit  there  like  a  common  clerk  eight  hours  a 
day  and  do  figuring — addition,  subtraction,  multiplication. 
That's  a  fine  job  for  a  man  like  me!" 

Her  face  was  unpleasant. 

"What  of  it?"  she  asked. 

"What  of  it?  Did  I  come  here  to  Pittsburgh  for  this? 
Why  do  you  talk  that  way,  Mary?  My  Lord,  women!" 

She  spoke  almost  angrily: 

"You  know  what  father  keeps  saying — you  must  make 
your  job  bigger  than  you  find  it,  and  so  outgrow  it." 

"Make?    There's  nothing  to  make.     It's  made — " 

"Then,"  she  interrupted,  "make  a  new  job.  That's 
what  I  expected  of  you.  Study  the  business,  get  to  know 
it  from  the  bottom  to  the  top,  go  through  the  mills,  learn 
the  processes,  make  yourself  invaluable.  Why,  I'll  do  it 
with  you." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  sarcastically,  "in  my  spare  time."  His 
voice  became  loud.  "Now,  by  God — ' 

She  cut  him  short  in  a  low,  piercing  voice: 

"Please  don't  talk  that  way  before  the  servant.  I 
won't  have  it,  Kirby.  It's  bad  enough  that  you  do  it  to  me. 
Don't  make  me  sorry  I — "  She  paused,  and  became  pale. 

353 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

He  stared  at  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  sentimentalize?  I  tell  you  this  is  a 
dirty  little  town;  there's  nothing  to  do,  and  I'm  going  to 
get  out  of  it." 

"No,  you're  not,"  she  replied.  "We've  made  a  com 
pact  with  my  father  and  we're  going  to  stick  to  it." 

He  began  to  eat  chicken  savagely  then;  not  another 
word  was  spoken  during  the  meal.  Mary  remembered  the 
quarrel  they  had  had  over  her  money,  and  again  she  saw 
herself  involved  in  a  coarse,  domestic  tragedy,  and  felt  the 
intense  pain  of  young  wifehood.  Was  she,  too,  destined 
to  be  disillusioned,  to  have  a  husband  who  came  home  to 
let  his  harsh  temper  out  on  her  because  he  could  not  rid 
himself  of  it  in  the  office,  to  find  hate  and  heartache 
instead  of  love  and  comfort?  She  felt  that  much  that 
was  beautiful  and  erect  in  her  nature  was  being  bent  and 
beginning  to  break. 

Yet  she  half  blamed  herself.  Possibly  she  had  not  yet 
learnt  the  wife's  first  lesson — how  to  handle  and  manage 
her  husband;  when  to  be  silent,  when  to  scold,  when  to 
soothe. 

Supper  over,  she  went  into  the  parlor  and  looked  out  of 
the  open  window  at  the  mill  flare  on  the  horizon  which 
gave  her  the  black  silhouettes  of  a  plain  of  roofs  and 
chimney-tops.  The  night  was  hot  and  moist  and  smelt 
bitter-sweet  with  the  smokes. 

Kirby  came  in  softly ;  he  had  cooled  off,  and  remorse  set  in. 

"Mary?"  he  murmured,  tremulously. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

He  went  and  put  an  arm  round  her  shoulder.  She 
pushed  it  off. 

"Ah,  Mary,"  he  said;  "  I  just  had  to  let  it  out." 

"That's  it,"  she  said,  bitterly.  "You  only  think  of 
yourself.  And  after  all  the  work  I've  done" — her  voice 
broke — "you  never  even  noticed  the  sweet-peas;  no,  nor 
the  chicken.  I  went  down  specially  and  cooked  it  myself 
to  please  and  surprise  you." 

354 


THE    MACHINE 

It  did  surprise  him.  It  proved  how  thoroughly  she  had 
entered  on  her  adventure;  how  completely  she  had  left 
her  position  in  life  to  be  his  mate.  It  was  a  real,  not  a 
pretended  sacrifice.  She  had  pitched  in  and  taken  a  job 
far  more  menial  for  her  than  a  clerk's  job  for  him.  It 
made  him  shrink  beside  her — a  selfish  and  pettish  man. 
He  could  only  humbly  beg  forgiveness;  she  could  only 
grant  it.  Their  love  grew  glowing  and  splendid;  their 
evening  was  charged  with  bright  talk  and  affection. 
Nevertheless  it  was  a  bad  beginning. 

So  he  kept  his  job  and  became  a  bitter  clerk.  But  in 
Mary  there  was  no  bitterness  at  all.  Like  a  pioneer 
woman  she  had  come  to  this  city  of  soot,  and  because  she 
was  engaged  in  a  great  feminine  enterprise  she  paid  but 
casual  and  half-humorous  attention  to  smoke  and  dirt, 
provincialism  and  stupidity.  This  enterprise  was  the 
splendid  manufacturing  business  of  producing  a  great  man 
out  of  a  raw  Kirby.  She  went  at  it  as  her  father  went  at 
Steel,  and  her  love  and  vision  made  it  engrossing,  rich, 
dramatic. 

First  she  organized  the  animal  basis  of  life — sanitation 
and  the  commissary — so  that  her  man  might  have  a  sound 
body.  She  gave  the  house  periodic  tremendous  cleanings, 
wrapping  a  towel  round  her  head,  donning  an  apron,  and 
dusting  and  sweeping. 

"The  mistress  must  work  with  the  servants,"  was  her 
rule,  "if  she  wants  efficiency." 

Then  she  made  herself  at  home  in  the  kitchen,  and,  after 
much  study,  laid  out  a  three-weeks'  menu,  so  that  au 
tomatically  they  might  have  variety  in  the  food  and 
practise  economy  as  well. 

She  was  strong  on  economy — a  Watts  trait,  to  be  sure, 
but  welcome  in  a  five-thousand-a-year  home.  Several 
people  in  the  United  States  have  lived  on  less  than  this 
income,  but  not,  as  a  rule,  daughters  of  Steel  Magnates. 
So  she  did  much  of  the  marketing  herself,  all  of  the  shop 
ping,  and  kept  Kirby  down  on  extras,  such  as  theater 
24  355 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

and  liquor  and  clothes.     She  indulged  him  in  tobacco, 
but  she  cut  out  automobiles  altogether. 

He  would  laugh  over  this. 

"How  can  you  stand  it — you,  Mary  Watts?" 

"I'm  not  Mary  Watts,"  she  replied;  "I'm  Mary 
Trask.  Leave  me  in  peace ;  I'm  having  a  good  time." 

Another  sacrifice  was  to  do  without  a  lady's  maid, 
but  she  professed  to  enjoy  even  this.  And  her  letters  to 
her  father  were  full  of  these  delightful  details,  though  the 
scribbled  response  was  usually : 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  that  you're  sticking  to  your  compact. 
But  I  expected  as  much.  Very  busy;  engrossed,  in  fact. 
Some  day  I'll  run  in  on  you." 

So  much  for  the  animal  basis.  On  this  foundation, 
however,  she  built  a  remarkable  superstructure.  Shortly 
after  that  first  evening  she  paid  a  secret  visit  to  Franklin, 
Secretary  of  the  first  Vice-President,  a  powerful  young  man 
who  reminded  her  of  Pendleton,  and  the  conference  lasted 
an  hour  and  a  half.  Nothing  came  of  it,  however,  for 
several  months.  Then  one  evening  she  said  excitedly  to 
Kirby: 

"  Go  in  your  study.     I  want  to  show  you  something." 

He  went  into  the  little  room,  wondering.  It  held  a 
flat-top  desk,  book-cases,  a  few  pictures,  a  few  chairs. 
Mary  entered,  staggering  under  armfuls  of  books  and 
documents.  These  she  dropped  on  the  desk. 

"Now,  what  in  the  world — "  began  Kirby. 

She  laughed  and  spoke  breathlessly: 

"Kirby,  I've  just  put  in  three  months'  studying.  Now 
I'm  ready  to  begin  on  you." 

He  was  nonplussed.  His  job  already  had  had  the 
usual  effect  of  monotony  on  Kirby.  It  had  given  him  the 
false  security  and  content  of  the  rut;  it  had  put  him  in 
danger  again  of  losing  ambition.  As  it  was  not  big  enough 
to  call  out  his  power  it  tended  to  put  him  to  sleep.  It  had 
become  an  easy  routine,  and  home  life  was  pleasant.  Why 
disturb  things? 

356 


THE    MACHINE 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  suspiciously. 

"Look!"  And  she  handed  him  The  History  of  the 
American  Steel  Company,  Story  of  a  Thousand  Millionaires, 
High  Finance:  Its  Secrets,  Steel:  the  Process,  several 
annual  reports  of  the  company,  and  a  bunch  of  statistical 
pamphlets. 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged,"  he  muttered;  "have  you  been 
digging  in  these?" 

It  put  him  to  shame. 

"Yes,"  she  cried.  "And  it's  absorbingly  interesting. 
Here's  your  way  out,  Kirby.  You  know,"  she  said  with 
her  head-high  pride,  "we're  to  make  a  great  man  of 
Kirby  Trask." 

He  was  shocked  out  of  his  sloth.  It  would  have  been 
unmanly  to  resist  her.  So  she  set  him  to  work,  and  they 
spent  many  evenings  together  in  the  study,  reading,  dis 
cussing,  digesting.  She  held  him  to  it,  too.  If  he  com 
plained  of  tiredness  she  compromised  on  a  ten-minute 
session,  and  usually  the  ten  minutes  expanded  to  two 
hours.  And  as  he  plodded  on,  there  came  a  time  when 
he  began  to  get  a  grip  on  it,  to  see  it  big,  to  get  the  vision 
of  Steel,  until  all  his  latent  energies  were  aroused.  He 
began  to  understand  how  steel  is  made,  how  the  industry 
grew  to  its  huge  proportions,  the  methods  of  the  business, 
the  details  of  management,  until,  fired  with  fresh  ambition, 
he  started  in  on  a  study  of  the  different  departments — 
manufacture,  sales,  labor,  finance,  etc. 

And  he  began  now  to  show  his  power  to  Mary:  his 
amazing  grasp ;  his  sharp  analyses;  his  inventive  faculty. 
For  instance,  he  noticed  that  in  Germany  the  scrap-iron 
was  stacked  in  heaps  twice  as  big  as  those  of  the  company. 
Why?  He  figured  out  the  problem.  Evidently  the  com 
pany  considered  a  larger  heap  unsafe.  But  if  Germany  did 
this,  so  could  America,  and  the  economy  in  time  would 
save  much  money. 

He  worked  out  another  project,  bold  indeed.  There 
were  two  mills  turning  out  the  same  product,  and  Kirby 

357 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

figured  that  by  selling  one  he  could  make  the  other  twice 
as  big  at  one-third  the  selling  price  and  saye  the  company 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Naturally  if  he  could  successfully  carry  out  such  proj 
ects  he  would  become  a  high-price  man.  He  was  for 
sitting  down  and  writing  to  Jordan  Watts  at  once. 

"No,"  said  Mary.  "Father  won't  have  faith;  he'll 
turn  the  plan  over  to  some  manager,  who  will  twist  it 
around  and  make  it  his  own  and  take  the  credit.  Wait  a 
bit.  Wait  till  you  have  more  authority." 

To  carry  out  a  part  of  her  plan  she  forced  Kirby  to  in 
spect  the  mills  with  her  and  see  the  processes  with  his  own 
eyes.  So  one  winter  night  they  went  out  to  Macleod,  on 
the  Monongahela.  The  cinder-dead  and  smoke-blackened 
mill-town  rose  up  the  heights;  at  its  base  lay  the  vast 
acreage  of  mills  on  both  sides  the  river.  The  sharp,  frosty 
air  was  thick  with  smoke  and  soot,  and  loud  with  metallic 
thunder. 

They  had  to  cross  a  railroad  bridge  to  get  into  the 
ground,  first  showing  their  pass  to  the  gate-keeper  and 
waiting  for  a  guide.  On  the  bridge  they  stood  then,  and 
had  unfolded  to  them  the  Vision  of  Steel. 

For  over  the  vast  acreage  they  saw  the  shadowy  out 
lines  of  a  dozen  immense  buildings  nested  in  a  network  of 
switches  and  tracks.  Over  those  tracks  clanked  yard- 
engines  with  rattling  trains  of  flat  cars;  red  and  green 
signal-lamps  winked  and  glistened;  and  laborers,  swinging 
lanterns,  hurried  to  and  fro. 

Some  of  those  looming  buildings  glowed  at  the  windows 
as  if  they  were  eaten  by  fire;  some — the  converter  sheds — 
were  like  craters  with  waving  manes  of  flame  and  rolling 
clouds  of  luminous  vapor.  Everywhere  they  saw  sheets 
of  fire,  leaping  white  tongues,  glare  and  smoke  and  steam, 
while  lightnings  flashed  the  cloudy  skies.  And  over  it  all 
a  hundred  black  chimney-pipes  looked  through  the 
changing  lights. 

And  it  seemed  to  these  two  as  if  there  had  been  bared 
358 


THE    MACHINE 

to  them,  in  this  amazing  spectacle  of  men  and  flame  and 
machinery,  the  very  birth-throes  of  the  anguished  In 
dustrial  Mother.  Her  ingots  roared  in  the  "wringers," 
her  engines  shrieked  and  clattered  in  the  yards,  her  rolls 
and  wheels  and  mighty  furnaces  crashed  and  clanked  and 
screeched. 

They  beheld  then  the  birth  of  Steel.  Guide-led  over  the 
peril  of  the  switches,  engine-wafted  from  one  mill  to  an 
other  on  either  side  the  river,  they  stood  first  in  this  pit, 
then  in  that,  flamelit  midgets  in  Vulcanic  sheds. 

With  staring  eyes  they  saw  the  huge  and  sweating 
laborers  like  midwives  assisting  the  mother;  these  scorched 
and  blinded  in  a  glare  of  fire,  those  steaming  at  their 
levers  in  the  outer  or  upper  gloom,  all  passionately  intent, 
desperately  speeded,  while  the  black  arms  of  roof-lost 
cranes  or  the  white-hot  ten-ton  ingot  or  the  splash  and 
vapor  of  fluid  iron  or  the  bumping  of  the  dinky  engine 
writhed  round  them  monstrously. 

Like  Dante  following  Virgil  these  two  invaded  circle 
after  circle  of  this  lurid,  beautiful  Hell — the  blast-furnace 
releasing  fluid  iron  that  fell  with  shower  of  white  flakes 
and  cloud  of  white  smoke  glaringly  into  the  ladles;  this 
sputtering  iron  poured  into  the  egg-shaped  Bessemer  con 
verter  that  blew  air  through  it  till  it  changed  into  steel, 
while  the  heavens  above  flamed  and  shuddered;  the  fluid 
steel  caking  into  ingots  in  the  molds  and  carried  like  a 
row  of  little  men  on  the  flat  cars  to  the  next  mill ;  the  hand 
of  the  crane  seizing  ingot  by  ingot  and  lowering  them  like 
lost  souls  into  the  withering- white  soaking  pits  in  the  floor ; 
the  same  electric  crane  lifting  them  when  they  were  re 
heated  white-hot,  pushing  them  on  the  rolls  that  swung 
them  back  and  forth  through  the  "wringer"  until  they 
were  pressed  into  steel  sheets,  while  the  hot  metal  roared 
like  hungry  lions.  Change  by  change  they  saw  it;  the 
great  machines  doing  superhuman  work,  gently  and  un 
falteringly  lifting  and  hauling,  placing  and  shaping  the 
whited  tons  and  the  immense  containers. 

359 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

They  were  thrilled. 

"This,  then,  is  father's  work,"  said  Mary,  as  if  she 
meant,  "This,  too,  is  to  be  yours;  yours  to  make  greater." 

He  throbbed  with  new  vision.  From  such  mills  as  these 
our  modern  civilization  sprang  like  a  new  god  on  Earth, 
son  of  flame  and  the  machine,  and  of  men  like  Jordan 
Watts. 

This  massive  manufactory  astounded  him;  the  fact  that 
no  human  hand  touched  the  metal  from  start  to  end,  ancj 
the  fact  that  men  and  machines,  and  the  diverse  depart 
ments  and  processes,  were  as  perfectly  assembled  and  co 
ordinated  as  a  human  body;  the  heart  and  the  stomach, 
the  blood-vessels  and  the  brain,  toiling  together  without 
hitch.  Day  and  night  this  labor-body  flamed  and  worked, 
ceaselessly,  unrestingly,  through  the  years. 

"And  the  brain  of  this,"  he  thought,  "is  Jordan  Watts." 

He  felt  ready  now;  he  had  studied  the  industry;  he  had 
seen  its  body  at  work;  he  must  now  break  in  and  become 
a  part  of  its  brain — that  brain  that  from  the  remote  top 
somehow  could  speed  or  slow,  break  or  make,  lessen  or 
increase  the  weighty  body.  It  was  up  there  that  he 
belonged. 

"Kirby,"  said  Mary,  "you  must  join  the  Board  of 
Managers." 


XXXII 

KATIE 

QTARTING  with  that  night  Pittsburgh  laid  her  spell 
O  on  Kirby's  spirit.  He  could  not  help  but  think  of 
her  as  a  Siren  among  American  cities — a  smoky  beauty, 
whose  hair  by  day  drifted  gray  over  the  darkening  streets, 
and  by  night  was  gusts  of  fire  flaring  a  lightning  along  the 
rivers.  Lit  by  the  flare  of  Steel,  the  desolation  of  the 
streets  and  the  industrial  grime  of  the  hills  and  hollows 
became  a  thing  of  dark  enchantment.  The  cars  were 
still  slow,  the  evenings  almost  empty,  the  folk  he  met 
absorbed  in  work,  and  the  soot  was  almost  ceaseless;  yet 
these  things  were  as  the  wind,  the  thunder,  and  the  barren 
heath  in  "Macbeth" — merely  the  setting  for  miraculous 
things. 

Pittsburgh  was  flaming — that  was  the  secret  of  it.  The 
element,  fire,  which  has  always  been  a  magnet  for  man, 
whether  flame  of  camp  at  the  trail-end  or  light  of  ship  or 
home,  warmed  the  crass  town  almost  into  a  radiance  of 
romance.  Kirby  got  so  that  he  liked  the  taste  and  smell 
of  the  smoke,  and  told  such  strangers  as  he  met  that  it  was 
"healthy." 

Part  of  his  new  reaction  on  the  grim  city  was  his  growing 
importance  in  the  company.  This  made  him  one  of  the 
influences  of  Pittsburgh,  and  he  could  feel  his  hand  manipu 
lating  the  body  of  the  mill.  Mary  had  suggested  that  he 
join  the  Board  of  Managers.  Of  course  this  was  not  an 
immediate  possibility;  one  had  to  be  a  Manager  to  belong 
to  the  board.  However,  occasionally  on  Saturdays  the 

361 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

managers  lunched  with  the  superintendents  in  the  private 
dining-room  at  the  top  floor  of  the  building,  and  these 
lunches  constituted  a  semi-managerial  meeting. 

Kirby  had  discovered  that  sometimes  these  meetings 
were  attended  by  some  of  the  foremen  and  some  of  the 
assistant  superintendents.  He  went  to  Tomlinson. 

"  Is  there  any  reason,"  he  asked,  "  why  I  couldn't  attend 
the  next  Saturday  lunch?" 

"I'll  find  out,"  said  Tomlinson.  Evidently  some  one 
"higher  up"  thought  this  advisable,  for  ever  after  that 
Kirby  was  at  the  meetings. 

From  thirty  to  thirty-five  men  sat  about  the  immense 
table,  and  while  they  sipped  coffee  and  smoked  cigars  the 
meeting  was  called  to  order,  the  minutes  of  the  previous 
meeting  read,  and  absorbing  discussions  arose — plans  for 
changes  in  management,  conferences  on  wages,  labor,  and 
prices,  suggestions  on  buying  new  properties,  installing 
new  systems,  or  anything  else  the  members  had  in  mind. 
The  attempt  was  made  to  get  the  best  out  of  each 
man. 

And  it  seemed  to  Kirby  that  these  thirty-odd  men  were 
the  great  gray  brain  of  that  flaming  industrial  body,  that 
what  they  thought  and  dreamed  to-day  to-morrow  became 
living  facts  in  the  reality  of  machinery  and  sweated  labor. 
It  was  a  miracle  to  Kirby  to  be  a  throbbing  cell  in  this 
quivering  mentality,  to  utter  forth  words  that  might  roll 
into  action  through  the  mills  and  over  the  continent, 
to  feel  this  power  and  supremacy,  and  the  excitement  of 
brittle  thinking. 

But  if  these  men  were  the  brain,  they  were,  after  all, 
only  the  brain.  If  the  analogy  could  be  carried  so  far, 
behind  this  brain  dwelt  the  guiding  spirit  of  the  industry, 
the  supreme  ego.  Surely  this  Jordan  Watts  was  a  marvel ; 
for  though  he  was  never  present,  yet  he  overshadowed  each 
meeting  like  a  great  bird  of  prey  hovering  over  them, 
ready  to  swoop.  Every  project  was  subjected  to  the  test, 
"Would  Mr.  Watts  approve?"  Little  notes  from  him 

362 


KATIE 

were  read  and  action  taken  accordingly.  He  seemed  to 
watch  them  at  the  table  like  a  ghost. 

The  workers  and  the  mills,  then,  were  the  body,  the 
department  heads  and  managers  were  the  brain,  and 
Jordan,  the  guiding  spirit,  rose  above  them,  one  of  the 
great  of  the  world,  spreading  the  power  of  the  industry 
over  the  earth  and  sluicing  the  golden  profits  of  the  ma 
chine  into  massive  philanthropies.  Could  he  have  stood 
so  high  in  heaven,  however,  without  this  mighty  pedestal 
of  Steel?  And  on  a  like  pedestal  would  not  any  man 
appear  great? 

So  Kirby  thought,  and  he  added,  "When  he  topples  off 
I  shall  take  his  place."  This  vaulting  ambition  became 
almost  an  insanity  with  him;  he  was  half-crazed  again 
with  the  dream  of  empire.  He  saw  himself  raised  above 
the  millions,  panoplied  in  the  publicity  and  power  of 
a  dynast,  the  Man  of  Destiny,  the  Napoleonic  Amer 
ican. 

So  he  became  again  the  man  of  silence,  and  sat  at  the 
first  three  meetings,  dark  and  stolid,  as  if  he  heard  and 
saw  nothing,  the  big  black  cigar  continually  in  his  mouth. 
But  at  the  fourth  meeting  he  arose,  and  with  crushing, 
clear  logic  presented  the  scrap-iron  scheme.  The  men 
were  almost  amazed  at  the  apparition  of  this  new  power; 
in  the  hush  that  followed  he  knew  that  he  had  made  him 
self  felt.  The  scheme  was  referred  to  a  committee  and 
adopted  the  following  week.  It  worked  exactly  as  he  had 
planned. 

With  this  triumph  stiffening  his  self-assurance,  he  arose 
at  the  following  meeting  and  outlined  his  plan  for  the  sell 
ing  of  one  mill  and  the  reconstruction  of  another.  It  was 
a  bold  and  dazzling  project,  and  took  away  the  breath  of 
the  experienced  managers.  They  could  doubt  no  longer 
that  another  "young  genius"  had  been  added  to  their 
number.  The  plan  went  to  an  investigating  committee 
and  then  to  Jordan  Watts,  who  promptly  O.K.'d  it,  and 
within  ten  months  Kirby  saw  it  put  into  execution. 

363 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year  was  actually  saved 
to  the  company. 

The  reward  came  late  the  following  autumn.  Tomlin- 
son  called  him  in  one  morning: 

"I've  been  transferred  to  the  shipping  department. 
You're  to  be  Superintendent,  beginning  Monday." 

So  he  ceased  utterly  to  be  a  clerk,  and  showed  himself 
a  terrific  department  head,  speeding  up  the  work,  con 
stantly  experimenting,  a  master  of  yes  and  no.  All  his  old 
habits  as  Business  Manager  returned  to  him,  and  several 
more  were  added.  Requests  and  reports  had  to  be  made 
to  him  in  writing;  orders  went  from  him  on  little  type 
written  slips  signed  "  K.  T.,"  and  out  of  this  grew  the  nick 
name  "Katie,"  which  clung  to  him  thereafter. 

"Katie's  new  order"  was  the  word  that  went  round. 
"  Tell  it  to  Katie, "  was  the  department  slogan. 

During  the  following  spring  he  made  another  bold 
project.  It  had  been  felt  by  the  managers  that  the 
transportation  rates  on  steel  rails  were  ruinously  high; 
but  the  railroad  company  refused  to  consider  a  reduction. 
Mary  and  Kirby  spent  weeks  drawing  up  a  thirty-page 
document  of  facts  and  figures.  Then  he  sprang  the 
audacious  plan.  It  was  nothing  else  than  to  force  down 
the  rates  by  building,  if  necessary,  a  rival  railroad  to 
parallel  the  other  one.  The  mere  plan  would  probably 
have  the  effect  desired,  but  if  it  didn't  he  could  show  a 
profit  in  such  an  enterprise. 

The  managers  found  it  necessary  to  take  him  into  their 
secret  consultations;  again  an  investigation  was  made, 
and  finally  Kirby  was  authorized  to  deal  with  the  railroad. 
Vested  with  this  power  he  conferred  with  officials  all 
through  the  summer,  and  convinced  them  again  and  again 
that  the  company  would  not  hesitate  to  build  the  rival 
line.  In  the  fall  the  railroad  capitulated. 

Three  days  later  Kirby  found  a  pencil-scrawled  note 
from  Jordan  on  his  desk. 

"Dear  Kirby,"  it  ran,  "You  become  Traffic  Manager, 
364 


KATIE 

beginning  the  isth.  Office  on  tenth  floor.  I  see  you  are 
beginning  to  make  good." 

He  slammed  the  desk  shut,  stood  up,  and  trembled  with 
drunkenness. 

"I've  done  it!"  he  told  himself.     "I've  landed!" 

And  he  went  straight  home.  Mary  was  dusting  the 
study,  and  when  he  broke  in  like  a  madman  she  thought 
he  must  be  ill. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried,  flinging  down  the  dust-cloth. 

"Read  this!"  he  commanded. 

She  read. 

"Oh,  Kirby!"  she  exulted.  "Our  dreams  are  coming 
true.  I  wasn't  mistaken  in  you.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to 
join  the  Board  of  Managers?" 

It  was  a  great  moment  for  both  of  them.  Yet  the  old 
rascal  had  written,  "You  are  beginning  to  make  good." 
If  this  was  only  a  beginning,  what  then  was  expected  of 
him?  Surely  the  wise  old  man  was  subjecting  him  to  a 
supreme  test.  Yet  there  was  no  doubt  now  that  the  old 
man  was  "coming  round,"  was  beginning  to  approve  of 
him,  was  making  ready  to  give  him  a  place  at  the  top. 

Nevertheless,  no  other  miracle  occurred  for  over  a  year. 
During  that  period  Kirby  was  engaged  in  large  activities, 
and  became  known  as  one  of  the  great  men  of  the  company. 
He  was  in  all  the  secret  councils  of  the  Board,  a  dynamic 
member  who  continually  swept  the  others  into  new  ex 
periments.  His  recklessness  knew  no  bounds,  yet,  held 
rigidly  down  by  Mary's  practicality,  his  plans  were  usually 
found  highly  feasible. 

"Have  you  shown  this  to  Katie  yet?"  was  a  usual 
question  with  a  doubting  manager. 

The  summers  were  fiercely  hot  in  Pittsburgh;  during 
the  first  and  second  the  Trasks  had  only  a  two  weeks'  va 
cation  in  the  Maine  house,  but  the  third  they  took  off 
entirely  and  went  to  Europe.  Why  not?  As  Superin 
tendent  his  salary  had  been  ten  thousand,  and  Mary  had 
carefully  put  aside  the  surplus,  allowing  no  unusual  extra 

365 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

expenditure  in  the  household.  Now  he  was  getting 
fifteen  thousand  a  year,  so  the  savings  could  go  into  a 
tour.  She  even  agreed  now  to  an  automobile  and  a  lady's 
maid. 

These  three  years  were  happy  ones  for  Mary.  She  had 
surrendered  herself  completely  to  the  making  of  her  hus 
band,  and  so  long  as  he  made  strides  she  felt  that  she  had  a 
great  life-work.  Their  studies  and  scheming  together  in 
the  evening  and  on  holidays  consumed  her  whole  nature. 
And  nothing  could  be  more  dramatic  and  absorbing  than 
seeing  her  plans  being  realized  step  by  step. 

However,  as  she  went  on,  her  housekeeping  ceased  to 
be  an  adventure;  the  joy  of  making  a  little  go  a  great 
way  became  less  stimulating ;  and  finally  she  performed  her 
domestic  duties  merely  as  a  necessary  and  irksome  part 
of  her  life's  routine.  There  were  times,  even,  when  she 
wished  for  the  old  freedom  and  luxury,  the  swift  change 
of  scenes,  the  arrowy  flights  back  and  forth  over  the 
world.  She  was  too  strong-natured,  however,  to  give  in 
to  these  moods,  and  went  deliberately  ahead,  so  that 
Kirby  never  suspected  a  dissatisfaction. 

There  were  times,  too,  when  this  dissatisfaction  crys 
tallized  into  a  new  yearning.  At  such  moments  she  had 
a  great  desire  to  have  a  child.  Once  she  broached  the 
matter  to  Kirby,  but  he  felt  that  a  child  would  saddle 
them  financially  at  this  time,  and  she  finally  came  to  agree 
with  him,  that  during  these  perilous  years  of  growth  she 
must  give  her  whole  time  and  energy  to  Kirby.  The  child 
must  wait. 

After  that  first  night  her  relationship  with  her  husband 
became  an  untroubled  harmony;  they  never  quarreled 
again.  But  once  she  delighted  him  by  making  a  tiny  fight 
for  him.  He  was  home  with  a  bad  attack  of  tonsillitis, 
the  first  illness  in  years.  The  doctor  had  come  twice  in  the 
day,  and  finally  said : 

"  It  looks  like  diphtheria  to  me.  I'd  better  get  the  anti 
toxin." 

366 


KATIE 

So  in  the  morning  he  appeared,  prepared  to  plunge  a 
hypodermic  needle  into  Kirby's  arm  and  inject  the  yellow 
liquid.  Mary' watched,  actually  pale  with  vicarious  suffering. 

"What's  the  effect  of  the  antitoxin?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  it  '11  make  him  a  little  sick,  probably;  give  him  a 
bad  headache  for  a  couple  of  days." 

"But  he's  sick  enough  already,"  said  Mary,  sharply. 
"Besides,  I've  heard  that  sometimes  the  injection  brings  a 
bad  attack.     Are  you  sure  he  has  diphtheria?" 

The  doctor  looked  again. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "the  spots  look  better.  But  you 
never  can  tell.  We  had  best  be  on  the  safe  side." 

"Let  me  see,"  and  forthwith  Mary  looked  down  her 
husband's  throat  and  made  him  say  "ah."  Then  she 
turned  on  the  doctor.  "I'm  sure  it's  not  diphtheria;  it's 
just  tonsillitis,  and  it's  getting  better." 

The  doctor  had  the  hypodermic  ready,  and  he  lost  his 
temper. 

"Really,"  he  remarked,  "I  can't  take  a  lay  opinion.  I 
must  do  as  I  think  best." 

Kirby  meekly  offered  his  arm;  but  all  at  once  Mary 
interposed,  facing  the  doctor  with  all  her  magnificence,  her 
face  white,  her  hands  shielding  her  husband. 

"You  are  not  going  to  give  it  to  him,"  she  said. 

"Why,  this  is  absurd — " 

"Absurd  or  not,  you  sha'n't  give  it  to  him." 

The  doctor  could  only  beat  a  hasty  and  awkward  re 
treat,  and  enchanted  Kirby  grew  well  in  a  day. 

"No,"  said  Mary,  fondling  him,  "I  wasn't  going  to  let 
my  man  suffer  for  a  theorist." 

Kirby  concluded  that  she  was  the  most  wonderful 
woman  in  the  world.  At  this  time  he  began  to  grow 
patently  stouter,  and  Mary  tortured  him  with  a  restricted 
diet  and  dumb-bell  exercises  at  night.  Nothing,  however, 
stopped  the  corpulent  tendency,  and  the  grave-eyed 
woman  could  only  dolefully  mourn  the  passing  of  his  good 
looks. 

367 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

' '  A  middle-aged  husband ! ' '  she  sighed.  "  I '  ve  been  tak 
ing  too  good  care  of  you." 

"Middle-aged!"  he  laughed.  "Middle-aged  at  thirty- 
two." 

However  terrific  he  might  be  in  his  work,  at  home  he 
could  be  a  playful  boy,  a  tender  lover,  a  charming  com 
rade.  They  both  felt  that  their  marriage  had  been  unusu 
ally  successful. 

During  all  these  three  years  Jordan  Watts  only  ap 
peared  in  Pittsburgh  twice.  He  spent  the  night  each  time 
with  the  Trasks,  was  very  agreeable,  but  not  once  hinted 
as  to  what  he  thought  of  Kirby  and  his  future. 

But  one  evening  in  the  fall,  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth 
year,  while  Mary  was  dressing  for  dinner,  the  maid  came  in. 

"Your  father's  down-stairs." 

"Then  hook  up  my  dress  quick!"  cried  Mary,  flushing 
with  delight.  Impatiently  she  broke  loose  and  flew  down 
the  stairs.  Jordan  was  still  waiting  in  the  hall. 

"Father!"  she  cried. 

"Meg!" 

They  embraced  eagerly,  and  he  patted  her  cheeks  and 
kissed  her  with  an  unusual  display  of  fondness. 

"This  is  great!  great!"  he  exclaimed.  "My  old  girl." 
Then  he  lowered  his  voice:  "Is  Kirby  home?" 

"No." 

"Due— when?" 

"Any  minute." 

"Then  hurry  me  into  some  hiding-place.  I  want  to 
talk  with  you." 

She  looked  at  him  sharply,  her  heart  beginning  to  pound 
with  expectation.  Then,  laughing  like  conspirators,  they 
stole  up  to  Kirby's  study  and  locked  themselves  in. 

"Now  sit  down,  Mary,"  said  her  father. 

He  took  Kirby's  desk-chair  and  she  the  arm-chair  beside 
it. 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  he  said,  "to  give  you  folks  a 
new  chance." 

368 


KATIE 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

"Well,  you  own  a  hundred  thousand  in  stock,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  if  you'll  make  it  over  to  Kirby  I'll  see  that  he's 
elected  a  director,  so  that  he  can  attend  the  New  York 
meetings  and  learn  the  business  from  the  top." 

This  was  a  typical  Watts  proposition ;  Mary  was  rudely 
disappointed.  Always  fresh  obstacles  in  the  way! 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  mused,  "that  Kirby  won't  do  it. 
He's  always  refused  to  touch  my  money." 

"He  has?"  Jordan  chuckled.  "Well,  it's  up  to  you. 
As  you  two  rise  and  fall  together  I  don't  see  why  he  should 
cut  off  his  future  with  his  priggish  pride." 

"It's  not  pride,"  she  said,  stoutly.  "I  admire  him 
for  it." 

"Fiddlesticks!  If  a  man  wants  to  succeed  he's  got  to 
use  everything  he  can  lay  hands  on.  He's  done  pretty 
well;  now  he's  got  to  show  if  he's  big  enough  to  overcome 
such  personal  scruples." 

Her  face  darkened. 

"I  think  you  might  help  him,  father." 

"No,"  he  said,  bruskly.  "I've  stuck  to  my  word;  he 
must  stick  to  his.  I  offer  him  the  chances;  it's  up  to  him 
to  make  good.  I  wouldn't  value  him  at  two  cents  if  he  had 
to  be  helped.  You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  he  has 
the  chance  to  become  a  great  man." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  sharply,  "that  he's  proved 
himself  already." 

"Tut!  a  mere  beginning.  But  do  as  you  please."  He 
seemed  a  little  chagrined.  "Take  it  or  leave  it.  Only 
such  a  chance  won't  come  again  in  a  hurry." 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  mused  once  more,  "that  he  won't  take 
it.  Yet  I'll  ask  him." 

They  went  down  to  the  dining-room  then.  Mary  was 
confused;  she  knew  that  this  was  the  opportunity  Kirby 
had  been  seeking,  that  it  would  throw  him  into  direct 

369 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

contact  with  her  father,  and  that  he  could  not  help  but 
rise  rapidly  when  he  could  fight  his  fight  man  to  man ;  yet 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  almost  hoped  he  would  refuse. 
She  had  accepted  his  attitude  on  the  money,  and  thought 
it  manly  of  him  to  struggle  single-handed,  to  labor  along 
the  line  of  most  resistance  instead  of  taking  the  easy 
short-cut. 

At  table  Kirby  saw  that  something  was  "up"  and  grew 
excited  himself.  But  for  some  time  he  remained  unen 
lightened;  Mary  was  silent  and  old  Watts  was  very  jocular. 

"  You're  a  fine  modern  couple!"  he  cried,  indulging  in 
his  favorite  theme  with  them.  "  Always  think,  you 
young  folks,  that  there's  time  enough  for  children." 

Mary  blushed,  looked  down. 

"  But  not  for  me,"  he  babbled.  "  If  you  don't  hurry, 
the  little  fellow  won't  have  any  grandparent ....  Mod 
ern  corruption!  In  my  time — " 

He  talked  for  ten  minutes,  until  Mary  cut  him  short 
with,  "  What  are  you  talking  about,  father?  You  only 
had  two." 

It  brought  the  thought  of  dead  Alice.  Silence  fol 
lowed.  .  .  .  Then,  in  the  hushed  expectancy,  Mary  spoke 
to  Kirby. 

"Father  has  made  us  a  proposition.  He'll  put  you  on 
the  Board  of  Directors  if  you  become  a  shareholder  by 
taking  over  my  stock." 

Kirby  glanced  at  her,  his  eyes  glittering;  he  felt  his 
blood  rushing;  dazzling  prospects  opened  up  to  him;  this 
was  success  indeed. 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"You  know  what  I  think,"  said  Mary.  "It's  for  you 
to  decide." 

She  waited,  trembling;  she  saw  that  look  of  steely 
triumph,  that  bristling  air  of  dominance.  The  whole  man 
seemed  to  pulse  like  a  powerful  dynamo. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "it's  just  a  formality,  isn't  it?  If  it's 
the  only  way  it  would  be  a  shame  to  refuse." 


KATIE 

Jordan  laughed. 

"That's  the  talk!"  he  exclaimed.     "How  now,  Meg?" 

But  to  Mary  came  a  black  emotion  akin  to  despair. 
Her  reason  said:  "Of  course  he  must  do  it.  Be  very 
happy,"  but  her  heart  insisted,  "There's  something  in  him 
you  don't  fully  know  yet.  He's  thinking  of  his  success 
while  you're  thinking  of  him."  However,  such  thoughts 
must  be  banished.  She  smiled  lightly  at  her  husband. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "it's  only  a  formality." 

25 


XXXIII 

WIPING   UP  THE   FLOOR 

ALMOST  monthly  now  the  Trasks  of  Pittsburgh  came 
to  New  York  for  directors'  meetings  and  made  a 
holiday  of  the  jaunt.  It  was  delightful  to  drop  house 
keeping  routine  and  go  from  the  murky  mill-town  to  the 
chiseled  brilliance  of  the  metropolis,  whose  abrupt  build 
ings  rose  sharp  in  the  vigorous  blue  skies,  and  whose  sunny 
air  was  rinsed  by  the  sea.  They  found  a  different  rhythm 
of  the  streets  here,  a  richer,  swifter  pulsation,  an  atmos 
phere  trembling  with  vivid  activity.  And  by  night  they 
felt  as  if  they  were  bathing  in  the  lights.  Surely  Pitts 
burgh  was  a  mere  lurid  pocket  of  this  world-center,  this 
magnet-city  that  drew  the  great  of  every  enterprise  and 
profession. 

As  Kirby  put  it:  "You  meet  all  the  heads  in  New 
York." 

These  holidays  meant  theater,  opera,  possibly  some 
public  dinner  or  social  function;  and  for  Mary  there  was 
shopping  in  the  department  stores  and  visits  to  the 
tailor,  and  for  Kirby  the  meeting  with  great  names. 
Uniformly  Jordan  took  his  lunch  in  a  club  at  the  top 
of  one  of  the  skyscrapers,  and  here  in  the  private  rooms 
Kirby  met  many  men  of  wealth  and  power.  He  was 
impressed  and  amazed  by  the  fact  that  many  of  these 
appeared  to  have  the  time  to  sit  for  hours  together,  smok 
ing,  drinking,  and  telling  stories;  he  had  always  imagined 
that  the  top  men  were  the  hardest  worked.  He  also 
met  a  new  viewpoint,  put  forth  almost  passionately  by  a 

372 


WIPING    UP    THE    FLOOR 

scion  of  an  old  New  York  family — namely,  that  in  America 
there  were  two  divinely  ordained  classes:  those  God  had 
chosen  for  obedience,  those  God  had  chosen  for  rulership. 

"And,"  said  this  man,  "the  lower  classes  are  better  off 
than  we.  Their  hard  work  and  poverty  is  good  for  theni. 
Look  at  their  wives  and  ours:  theirs  are  strong  and  can 
work;  ours  are  nervous  wrecks.  It  half  kills  them  to  bear 
children." 

A  "self-made"  man  protested  vehemently  that  the 
wives  of  the  workers  were  hardly  fortunate. 

"Some  of  them,"  he  said,  "instead  of  caring  for  their 
homes,  have  to  go  out  and  work;  and  they  work  up  to  the 
day  the  baby  is  born,  and  then  return  to  work  ten  days 
later.  It's  inhuman." 

"You're  mistaken,"  said  the  scion;  "I  understand  they 
go  back  to  work  in  a  week." 

This  amazing  viewpoint,  coupled  as  it  was  with  another, 
that  "you  can't  keep  a  good  man  down;  those  with  native 
ability  rise  straight  up  to  our  class,"  set  Kirby  thinking. 
Possibly,  he  thought,  there  was  something  in  it.  It 
warmed  him  with  comfort  to  think  that  God  had  plucked 
him  for  power. 

He  could  never  get  enough  of  these  New  York  excur 
sions;  he  waited  impatiently  for  each  call  of  a  meeting; 
for  not  only  did  he  move  about  here  like  a  free  god  among 
the  pleasant  Olympians,  but  at  the  Board  table  he  felt 
that  he  had  traced  back  the  whole  gigantic  steel  industry 
to  the  one  little  skull  that  dominated  it.  Jordan's  direc 
tors  were  echoes  of  Jordan,  and  it  was  wonderful  to  see  the 
little  man  sending  out  thought-waves  through  the  gray 
brain  and  flaming  body  in  Pittsburgh,  or  catching,  as  it 
were,  the  thought-waves  of  the  Siren  City  and  radiating 
them  over  the  world.  He  might  find  that  Europe's  demand 
for  rails  was  slackening;  out  went  his  word  to  close  Mill  7. 
Or  Pittsburgh  might  inform  him  that  there  was  a  rumor 
that  the  Senate  contemplated  lowering  the  tariff  on  armor- 
plates;  Jordan  would  speak  to  a  secretary: 

373 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Get  Senator  Stillman  on  long  distance." 

Then  he,  sitting  in  his  leather  arm-chair,  sped  his  mind 
to  Washington,  and  possibly  blocked  legislation.  * 

The  first  meeting  that  Kirby  attended  was  held  late  in 
the  autumn,  a  dark  and  drenching  day.  The  twenty-two- 
story  Frost  Building  stood  at  the  corner  of  Rector  Street, 
just  below  Wall,  and  when  Kirby  emerged  from  the  taxicab 
he  saw,  only  three  doors  away,  the  gas-lit  five-story  build 
ing  of  the  Continental  Express  Company.  He  stood  a 
moment  in  the  rain,  and,  among  the  hurrying  umbrella- 
lost  people,  in  a  shock  of  the  Past.  He  was  eight  years 
younger,  a  thin  and  troubled  clerk,  going  down-town  in  a 
crowded  cable-car,  tramping  over  the  sawdust  floor  and 
climbing  to  the  third  story;  the  radiator  bubbled,  the  gas 
flamed  above  his  desk,  rain  smote  the  air-shaft  window, 
and  there  in  the  corner  were  Old  and  Young  Ferg;  a  gong 
sounded;  pen-points  scratched  in  ceaseless  monotony. 
He  was  caught  seemingly  in  a  lifetime  of  obscurity. 

"Extra!  Wall  Street  extra!  Paper,  mister?"  A  drip 
ping  newsboy  pushed  against  him. 

"No,"  he  snapped  and  came  back  to  himself.  Three 
doors  away?  No,  eight  years,  eight  ages  away.  He 
looked  down  and  saw  his  ample  girth;  he  felt  the  heaviness 
of  his  jowls;  his  clothes  smelt  of  a  Havana  cigar;  his  stickpin 
held  a  rare  pearl;  he  was  a  Traffic  Manager  and  Director 
of  the  American  Steel  Company.  A  miracle,  indeed;  and 
yet  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  away,  at  that  very  moment, 
possibly,  half-drunk  Bradsley  was  still  fussing  with  tariff 
sheets.  What  was  real  in  life? 

With  a  grim  snort  he  entered  the  Frost  Building  and 
took  an  express  elevator  to  the  twenty-first  story.  The 
offices  were  large  and  simple,  furnished  in  an  expensive 
but  unobtrusive  way.  All  the  furniture  was  of  golden- 
oak  and  leather,  the  walls  were  papered  tan,  the  carpets 
plushy  brown,  a  few  maps  and  pictures  of  the  works  hung 
here  and  there.  The  entrance  held  telephone  switch 
board  and  office-boys;  to  the  left  were  large  rooms  full 

374 


WIPING    UP   THE    FLOOR 

of  busy  men  and  women;  to  the  right  Jordan's  suite. 
First,  an  anteroom  where  people  waited;  next,  the  private 
office  with  immense  flat  desk,  empty  of  everything  but 
blotter,  glass  inkstand,  pen,  elastics,  and  pins;  and  last, 
the  Board-room  with  its  long  table  and  leather  chairs. 

From  the  wide  windows  Kirby  could  look  directly  down 
on  the  old  crumbling  graveyard  of  Trinity  Church.  The 
tall,  brown  steeple  leaned  far  below  him,  and  Broadway 
went  up  and  down  with  little  toy-people  and  little  toy-cars. 
On  this  same  graveyard  looked  the  walls  of  other  skyscrapers, 
cutting  off  the  view  on  all  sides  save  the  west,  where 
Kirby  saw  a  stretch  of  low,  red  roofs  along  the  water 
front,  masts  of  ships,  steamer  funnels,  and  a  patch  of  busy 
river.  It  was  a  typical  commercial  view  of  New  York — 
the  church  swallowed  in  finance,  industry,  and  water  and 
rail  transportation.  Steel — it  all  meant  Steel:  Steel  lifted 
him  twenty-one  stories  high;  steel  tracks  were  on  the 
street;  steel  sewers  beneath;  steel  steamers  lay  moored  at 
the  docks;  steel  wires  enmeshed  the  city  with  telephone 
and  telegraph;  steel  bridges  spanned  the  rivers. 

"And  Jordan  Watts,"  thought  Kirby,  "is  Steel.  And 
some  day  I  may  be  Steel." 

He  was  very  much  interested  in  Jordan's  methods  of 
work.  He  very  soon  perceived  that  the  old  magnate 
was  surrounded  by  extensions  of  himself — namely,  law 
yers,  accountants,  secretaries,  engineers,  draftsmen,  and 
specialists  of  every  sort.  He  was  evidently  a  great  be 
liever  in  putting  each  type  of  work  in  the  hands  of  a 
specialist,  thereby  leaving  himself  free  for  the  large  super 
vision  and  the  major  initiations.  He  kept  fresh  this  way; 
he  could  begin  things  and  end  them,  the  harassing  details 
all  worked  out  by  others. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  leave  the  particulars  to  others. 
How,  then,  do  I  get  results?  Simple  enough.  I  pick 
only  the  right  men." 

It  was  his  genius  in  finding  and  using  human  material. 

Among  the  secretaries  one  of  them,  a  woman,  interested 

375 


THE  OLYMPIAN 

Kirby  deeply.  In  a  superficial  way  she  resembled  Mary; 
a  well-built,  mature  person,  dressed  all  in  black,  with  brown 
hair  and  black  eyes.  Her  voice  was  soft  yet  direct;  her 
lips  small;  her  jaw  tightly  set;  there  were  lines  about  the 
eyes  and  over  the  broad  forehead  that  indicated  over 
work  and  overstrain,  but  she  came  and  went  lightly, 
commanding,  pervasive,  watchful.  It  was  her  duty  to 
interview  and  pick  from  among  the  callers  the  lucky  ones 
who  would  be  allowed  to  see  Watts ;  she  also  did  much  of 
the  telephoning,  arranging  appointments,  or  turning  away 
trouble.  Between  Jordan  and  the  vulgar  world  she  stood 
like  a  soft  buffer.  Evidently  he  was  wise  in  choosing  a 
woman  for  this  delicate  task,  for  the  soft  answerer  could 
turn  away  wrathful  mortals  in  a  way  that  was  comforting 
indeed. 

This,  then,  was  the  outlay.  Add  to  it  the  seven  or  eight 
complacent,  rotund,  cigar-smoking  directors  who  attended 
the  meetings  and  this  Inner  Sanctuary  of  Steel  was 
complete. 

For  quite  a  number  of  meetings  Kirby  found  himself 
merely  an  ear  and  a  vote.  Jordan  did  the  talking;  the 
directors  listened  with  evident  enjoyment,  and  then  bliss 
fully  gave  their  yes  or  no  as  the  little  man  indicated. 
This  annoyed  Kirby  considerably. 

"Some  day,"  he  vowed,  "I'll  set  off  a  stick  of  dynamite 
here." 

But  the  opportunity  was  long  in  coming. 

Jordan  treated  him  in  a  genial  yet  impersonal  way, 
introduced  him  as  "My  son-in-law,  Mr.  Trask";  went  to 
the  opera  with  his  two  children;  showed  glimmers  of  his 
old-time  affection  for  Mary;  but  never  once  spoke  man 
to  man  with  Kirby.  He  was  evidently  too  busy,  too  en 
grossed  to  do  so;  and,  besides,  he  was  almost  never  alone 
for  more  than  a  few  minutes. 

In  this  way  the  winter  passed.  The  next  summer  Mary 
and  Kirby  made  a  tour  of  the  West,  saw  America,  and 
everywhere — in  poppy-flooded  California,  in  the  Grand 

376 


Canon  of  the  Colorado,  in  Yellowstone  and  the  immense 
Northwest,  in  Salt  Lake  City  and  the  great  American 
Desert,  and  in  all  the  new  throbbing  cities  of  the  Middle 
West  Kirby  was  stirred  profoundly  by  the  presence  of 
Jordan  Watts.  His  name  was  in  every  newspaper,  on 
every  tongue;  his  steel  was  the  tough  muscle  of  every 
town  and  hamlet.  And  evidently  the  nation  was  proud 
it  had  given  birth  to  him. 

As  Kirby  touched  here  and  there  the  immense  three- 
thousand-mile  spread  of  this  new  civilization  the  sweet 
insanity  of  his  ambition  roused  him  again.  Some  day 
Jordan  Watts  would  be  forgotten;  then  it  might  all  be 
Kirby  Trask. 

Full  of  new  power,  determined  now  to  bring  matters  to 
a  swift  issue  and  break  his  way  up  without  further  delay, 
he  returned  to  Pittsburgh  in  the  fall.  His  thought  was, 
"I  won't  be  a  mummy  director  any  longer;  I'll  show  the 
old  man." 

Then  in  October  came  the  call  for  a  meeting.  A  year 
had  passed;  Kirby  was  nerved  for  action. 

Standing  at  ten-thirty  at  the  window  of  the  Board 
room  Kirby  had  a  vision  of  golden  October  in  the  city. 
The  Trinity  trees  were  yellow  and  red,  and  the  fresh  wind 
was  stripping  them  and  blowing  leaves  over  the  trolley- 
cars;  dust  eddied  in  the  streets;  and  over  the  brilliant 
blue  skies  patches  of  clouds  hurried  along,  passing  swift 
shadows  on  graveyard,  over  the  skyscrapers,  and  down 
on  the  sunlit  people.  Sun  and  shine  came  and  went; 
it  was  a  vigorous,  brittle  morning  that  reddened  the  blood 
and  roused  to  action.  It  was  sparkling  and  joyously 
exciting.  Kirby  felt  strong,  clear-brained,  ready. 

Directors  came  in  and  encircled  the  silent  Traffic  Man 
ager.  They  felt  his  reserved  power,  as  did  every  one  these 
days.  He  stood  there  in  his  dark-gray  suit,  just  beginning 
to  suggest  massiveness;  his  head  looked  bigger  than  ever, 
his  eyes  more  piercing. 

"How  are  things  Pittsburgh-way?"  asked  one. 
377 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"All  right,"  he  snapped,  and  was  silent. 

"I  hear,"  said  another,  "you're  having  a  little  labor 
squabble  over  there." 

"Yes,"  said  Kirby. 

"Anything  serious?" 

"No." 

Conversation  sagged. 

Then  Jordan  came  in  with  a  bright  "Good  morning," 
and  took  his  place  at  the  window-head  of  the  table.  The 
directors  seated  themselves  about  him  and  began  to  light 
cigars;  Kirby  lit  his  and,  in  his  usual  manner,  sat  hunched 
up,  eyes  on  the  table,  seemingly  vast  distances  away. 

The  minutes  of  the  previous  meeting  were  read  by  the 
secretary,  then  Jordan  began  swiftly  to  put  propositions, 
read  communications,  and  get  the  votes.  Nothing  de 
batable  appeared  in  these  transactions.  But  finally 
Jordan  started  to  speak  of  the  labor  trouble  and  Kirby 
felt  a  strange  tremor  in  his  breast. 

"This  isn't  an  ordinary  trouble,"  said  Jordan.  "It's 
not  a  question  of  labor-union  or  strikes.  The  men  of  the 
blooming  mills  merely  want  the  right  to  present  their 
grievances  by  committee  instead  of  personally.  They  say 
that  personally  they  are  not  listened  to." 

He  paused,  then  continued: 

"Ordinarily  I  would  say  no.  But  lately  I  have  been 
making  so  many  public  utterances  on  the  just  treatment 
of  the  worker  that  I  think  it  might  be  good  policy  to  follow 
it  up  by  this  definite  action.  Later  on  we  could  reverse 
our  decision  if  necessary.  Hence,  if  no  one  objects,  I  take 
it  that  it  is  the  sense  of  this  meeting  that  the  demand  be 
accepted." 

He  went  through  the  formality  of  waiting  for  an  objec 
tion.  Kirby  rose  slowly.  His  voice  was  hard  and  vibrant, 
hammering  through  the  room. 

"I  wish  to  object,"  he  said. 

The  dynamite  had  exploded;  the  directors  grew  pale 
at  this  apparition;  Jordan  was  annoyed. 

378 


WIPING    UP   THE    FLOOR 

"Mr.  Trask,"  he  said,  tartly,  "will  state  his  objection." 
"I  object,"  said  Kirby,  " to  giving  in  to  labor.  I  object 
to  a  soft  policy.  I  object  to  weakness.  I  know  the 
Pittsburgh  situation;  I  have  been  living  in  it.  Grant 
this  to  the  men  and  you  open  the  door  for  the  walking- 
delegate  and  the  union — it  is  only  a  step  beyond.  I  know 
these  men;  they  are  speeded  and  worked  under  military 
discipline.  No  other  method  will  keep  the  mills  running 
like  a  smooth  machine.  You  propose  to  break  this  disci 
pline,  but  I  say  if  you  do  so  you  will  find  that  when  they 
have  a  finger  they  will  want  the  whole  hand.  There  can 
not  be  more  than  one  master  in  a  house.  Either  we  are 
the  master  or  they.  I  call  for  a  secret  ballot  on  this 
question." 

He  sat  down.  The  directors  moved  about  uncomfort 
ably;  Jordan's  eyes  were  glittering. 

"Well  and  good.     We  shall  have  a  secret  ballot." 
The  secretary  prepared  and  passed  slips  and  pencils; 
the  ballots  were  marked ;  the  secretary  opened  and  counted 
them.     An  intense  excitement  was  in  the  room;  a  strange 
suspense. 

The  secretary's  voice  shook: 
"The  proposition  is  lost — unanimously." 
Jordan  stared.     This  was  unbelievable.     His  voice  was 
low  and  hard. 

"Very  well,  gentlemen,  just  as  you  wish.  New  busi 
ness." 

A  swift  reaction  came  to  Kirby;  he  had  beaten  the  old 
man  on  a  show  of  strength;  he  had  broken  down  the 
despotic  rule;  he  had  evoked  a  revolution  in  the  board. 
But  was  it  well?  After  all,  Jordan  still  had  full  power 
over  him;  could  easily  hurl  him  back  to  the  darkness. 
His  thought  was: 

"All  is  up  now!  Every  time  I  argue  with  him  I  make  a 
deadly  enemy  of  him." 

And  why  had  he  argued?  Up  to  the  very  moment  he 
had  risen  to  his  feet  he  had  never  had  any  definite  opinions 

379 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

on  the  labor  problem.  He  knew  that  several  hundred 
thousand  human  beings  worked  for  the  company  like  so 
many  cogs  in  the  machine,  many  of  them  in  the  withering 
heat  of  flames,  in  the  grime  and  gloom,  for  twelve  hours 
out  of  the  twenty-four,  many  of  them  seven  days  in  the 
week.  He  knew  that  the  ever-swiftening  machinery  paced 
the  men,  speeded  them  up,  made  them  old  before  their 
time,  and  released  them  at  night  to  their  smoke-blackened 
homes  in  the  squalid  mill-town,  fit  only  for  food  and  sleep, 
weary  drudges  in  the  pit  of  society — co-creators  of  this 
glory  of  the  top  that  Jordan  and  Kirby  enjoyed.  And  he 
knew  that  these  men  were  spied  upon,  that  any  attempt  to 
better  their  conditions  by  forming  unions  was  suppressed 
by  discharging  the  malcontent.  All  this  he  knew,  and 
much  more;  for  looming  over  the  times  like  a  black 
shadow  was  this  immense  struggle  between  the  Olympians 
and  the  Drudges  as  to  how  the  power  and  wealth  should 
be  divided.  Kirby,  once  a  drudge,  knew  the  griev 
ances  of  the  men.  Why,  then,  had  he  taken  his  harsh 
stand?  Was  it  merely  because  he  had  been  waiting  for  a 
vital  argument  with  Watts  and  took  the  opposite  side  like  a 
school-boy  debater? 

He  went  home  in  a  cold  sweat,  and  when  Mary  returned 
from  calling  late  in  the  afternoon  he  told  her. 

"And  I've  ruined  us,  I'm  afraid,  Mary.  He  won't  put 
up  with  me  any  longer.  Just  you  watch." 

She  laughed. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure.     But  were  you  right  in  your  position?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  Katie,  Katie!"  She  fondled  him.  "How  you 
love  to  beat  your  head  against  stone  walls!  Never  mind; 
I'll  speak  to  father." 

They  went  to  their  rooms  to  dress  for  supper,  and  when 
Kirby  came  down-stairs  and  passed  the  library  door  he 
heard  Watts  calling: 

"Kirby!" 

"Yes." 

380 


WIPING    UP    THE    FLOOR 

"Come  here  a  moment." 

He  entered  sullenly;  he  was  prepared  for  a  brutal  scene. 
The  old  man  sat  meditatively  at  his  desk,  his  eyes  mere 
slits  in  the  electric  light. 

"Sit  down." 

Kirby  sat;  he  thought  of  that  moment  when  J.  J.  had 
begun  to  curse  him,  and  his  heart  dropped  into  his  shoes. 

Then  Jordan  spoke  slowly: 

"Kirby,  I'm  going  to  make  you  a  Vice-President." 

Strange  lightnings  played  through  the  bewildered  man. 
He  could  have  risen  and  yelled.  He  straightened  up. 

' '  Vice-President  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  Your  office  in  the  Frost  Building,  and  you  and 
Mary  will  have  to  live  in  New  York.  You  might  live  here 
— the  house  is  big,  and  I'm  alone.  Maybe  Mary  would 
run  it  again  for  me." 

Kirby  was  breathless;  he  sat  staring  at  this  amazing 
man. 

"Oh  yes,"  added  Jordan;  "your  salary  will  be  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

Silence  followed.  Could  Kirby  believe  this?  Then 
Kirby  leaned  near. 

"That's  a  big  thing  to  do— but  why?" 

Jordan  turned  suddenly,  clapped  a  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  smiled  affectionately.  His  eyes  were  twinkling. 

"I'll  tell  you  why,"  he  exclaimed,  joyfully.  "Any  man 
who  can  wipe  up  the  floor  with  me  as  you  did  to-day  I  need 
as  a  partner.  Besides,  you  were  dead  right." 

And  so  another  miracle  had  been  performed  for  the  hero. 
Now  he  had  truly  risen  up  on  the  steps  of  the  throne.  But 
in  the  wild  burst  of  glory  he  felt  a  curious  twinge  of  un 
pleasantness.  He  thought  of  Meggs,  and  how  by  tram 
pling  on  that  detail-man  he  had  become  Business  Manager. 
Now  again  by  trampling  on  obscure  men — the  toilers  in 
the  mills — he  had  seized  on  success. 

But  Mary  glowed  over  her  two  men:  her  really  great 
father,  who  was  too  large-minded  to  indulge  in  personal 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

feelings,  but  raised  power  wherever  he  found  it;  her 
splendid  husband,  a  Vice-President  at  thirty-three.  She 
was  realizing  her  life-work;  it  was  her  triumph.  Her 
father  had  to  admit  now  that  her  choice  had  been  perfect; 
that  she  had  brought  him  a  partner  and  a  son  possibly  as 
great  as  himself. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  hugging  the  old  man,  "I'll  keep  house 
for  you— -just  like  old  times,  only  better." 


xxxrv 

A  NEW  LIFE-WORK 

IT  was  not  long  before  any  one  day  out  of  Kirby's  life 
might  have  seemed  like  a  week  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury  or  Europe.  He  was  turning  into  that  mass  of  nerves 
of  the  twentieth  century  which  might  be  limbless  so  far 
as  its  activities  are  concerned.  It  moves  mainly  on  wheels ; 
it  is  hoisted  up  and  down  buildings;  it  can  rest  in  a  chair 
and  argue  across  a  thousand  miles,  penetrating,  mentally, 
Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Washington,  or  Toronto;  it  utters 
sounds,  and  the  sounds  are  caught,  typed,  and  scattered 
by  carrier  and  mail-car;  it  hungers,  and  food  is  brought  to 
it;  it  desires  clothes,  and  the  tailor  appears;  it  craves 
music,  and  a  pressed  electric  button  floods  the  room  with 
Wagner.  Such  was  Kirby — an  American  Big  Business 
man. 

Promptly  at  seven  his  valet  entered  and  cut  down  the 
labor  and  time  of  dressing,  shaving  him  besides.  Going 
down-stairs,  breakfast  appeared  at  once.  His  motor 
waited  at  the  door,  and  he  rushed  through  half  a  dozen 
newspapers  on  the  way  down-town,  absorbing  with  jerking 
eye  a  colored  wash  of  the  world — London,  St.  Petersburg, 
Hong  Kong,  the  Isthmus  of  Panama,  Wall  Street,  and 
Chicago. 

Arrived  at  the  office  the  opened  mail  was  scanned,  letters 
from  everywhere.  Then  came  dictation,  long-distance 
'phoning,  interviews,  telegrams,  callers,  lunch,  two  or  three 
meetings  in  various  parts  of  the  city,  more  callers,  more 
'phone  calls.  He  might  speak  to  a  man  a  block  or  a  hun- 

383 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

dred  miles  away,  a  man  he  had  never  seen,  yet  project  his 
personality  crisply  over  the  wires. 

Evening  saw  him  home  dressing;  then  possibly  a  public 
banquet  or  a  meeting  with  a  financier  or  a  rare  evening  of 
music  or  drama.  Then  bed. 

At  other  times  he  traveled  in  a  private  car  from  city  to 
city,  hurried  trips  back  and  forth. 

In  short,  he  became  a  strenuous  Brain.  He  did  almost 
no  walking;  he  was  eternally  sitting  in  a  motor,  a  boat, 
a  train,  or  an  office;  and  the  swift  variety  of  problems  and 
people  demanded  thinking,  thinking,  and  thinking  through 
all  the  waking  hours.  And  all  that  thinking  demanded 
to  turn  into  action  was  speech — over  the  'phone  or  to 
secretary  or  conferee. 

There  was  something  unearthly  modern  and  American 
in  this  cerebral  life,  and  Kirby's  very  appearance  began 
to  conform  to  this  inner  violence.  He  began  to  get  a 
trifle  fat,  sat  dumpy,  with  big  head  bowed,  and  eyes  in 
tensely  alive.  Mental  power  breathed  from  him,  a  very 
atmosphere.  The  employees,  as  they  put  it,  could  "feel 
when  he  was  in  his  office." 

He  was,  truthfully  speaking,  a  social  nerve-center; 
every  fine  little  wire  or  line  of  tracks  or  sea  route  the  nerve 
radiations  that  brought  him  the  world,  that  winged  forth 
his  power. 

The  speed,  variety,  and  romance  of  this  life  were  rich 
indeed;  he  probably  lived  at,  say,  a  hundred  man-power. 
Yet  the  ceaseless  process  seemed  to  make  him  cynical  and 
hard ;  he  had  little  trust  in  human  nature ;  less  in  Nature ; 
his  faith  seemed  mainly  in  power,  in  what  he  called 
"results." 

Jordan  Watts  stood  in  awe  of  this  man,  who  seemed 
rather  like  forty  than  thirty-three.  He  almost  felt  as  if 
he  had  begotten  a  monster.  But  daily  his  admiration 
and  respect  increased,  gradually  he  opened  up  to  Kirby  his 
secret  plans  and  thinking,  and  soon  the  two  men  formed  a 
habit  of  daily  secret  conferences  that  lasted  an  hour  or  more. 

384 


A    NEW    LIFE-WORK 

In  short,  the  aging  man  began  to  lean  on  the  younger,  and 
this  increasing  dependence  seemed  to  emphasize  the  now 
palpable  fact  that  he  was  an  old  man.  He  still  toiled 
terrifically,  schemed,  plotted,  and  struck  bargains,  but  his 
whitening  hair,  his  wrinkled  face,  his  stooping  shoulders 
were  evidence  of  a  wintry  decline.  Mary  and  Kirby 
hardly  noticed  this,  though  Mary  said: 

"Father  doesn't  seem  so  well  lately." 

In  fact,  sometimes  he  complained  of  feeling  dizzy.  She 
urged  him  to  see  a  doctor,  and  the  doctor  advised  him  to 
retire. 

"You  can't  depend  on  that  heart  of  yours,"  he  said, 
"unless  you  ease  up.  Live  quietly,  and  you  have  years 
ahead  of  you.  Don't  go  to  pieces  like  our  business 
madmen." 

Jordan  was  not  much  impressed. 

"I'll  die  in  harness,"  he  announced. 

Nevertheless,  from  time  to  time  he  seriously  contem 
plated  retiring  from  active  life  to  devote  the  rest  of  his 
days  to  philanthropic  work.  He  felt  that  in  Kirby  he  had 
found  his  natural  successor. 

"Yes,"  he  would  ehirp  proudly  now,  " Kirby 's  my  son 
and  heir." 

And  he  would  proudly  point  to  Kirby  as  an  example 
of  democratic  America. 

"In  nine  years  he"  rose  to  the  top — broke  through 
everything." 

Kirby  was  becoming,  indeed,  part  of  the  bright  color  and 
romance  of  the  life  of  the  United  States.  He  grew  to  be 
a  well-known  figure  in  Wall  Street  now,  and  his  picture 
began  to  penetrate  the  country.  There  was  a  wide-spread 
feeling  that  he  was  the  brains  behind  Watts,  and  that 
Watts  was  passing  out  of  power. 

Men  generally  feared  him  a  little, — the  atmosphere  of 
power  that  surrounded  him,  the  cruel  stab  of  his  eyes,  the 
silence  and  attentiveness  while  he  chewed  his  cigar  back 
and  forth,  the  final  unalterable  yes  and  no. 

385   " 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

"When  he  says  no, "'said  a  broker,  "it's  all  over.  You 
couldn't  change  him  with  an  earthquake." 

Naturally  this  crowded  life  made  Kirby  a  typical 
American  husband.  Mary  saw  little  of  him,  and  when 
they  were  together  there  was  either  the  hurry  of  getting 
somewhere  else  or  the  presence  of  strangers.  However, 
at  rare  intervals,  when  she  begged  and  finally  coerced  him 
to  run  off  with  her  to  High  Hill,  he  was  tender,  generous, 
and  simple.  Yet  even  then  she  could  not  feel  that  he  was 
"near"  her;  under  his  playful  exterior  ran  an  under 
current  of  preoccupation,  a  subtle  worry.  It  was  like  a 
troubled  woman  playing  with  her  child;  answering  yes  or 
no,  patting,  kissing,  laughing,  even  building  a  block-house, 
and  yet  all  the  time  lost  in  another  world. 

She  persuaded  him  also  to  see  a  doctor,  believing 
that  he  was  overworking. 

"If  you  don't  exercise,"  said  the  doctor,  "pretty  soon 
you'll  have  to  be  carried  about  all  the  time." 

But  Kirby  paid  no  heed.  The  most  dramatic  life  on 
Earth,  that  of  American  business,  had  caught  him  in  its 
speed  and  spaciousness.  The  blame  could  be  laid  on 
modern  Communication  and  Transportation,  which,  mak 
ing  the  world  like  one  house,  brought  each  master  in  daily 
contact  with  a  thousand  interests. 

But  however  the  blame  might  be  disposed  of,  the  real 
burden  fell  on  Mary.  She  joined  those  tragic  Americans 
— the  idle  wives.  It  was  a  pitiable  fact  that  her  life-work 
with  Kirby  was  done.  She  had  sacrificed  the  world  and 
her  wealth  to  become  obscurely  domestic  in  a  murky  city 
that  she  might  develop  a  great  man ;  she  had  known  the 
maternal  joy  of  seeing  her  man-child  grow  under  her  hands, 
and  the  heavy  task  had  brought  her  a  rich  happiness. 

Now,  however,  he  had  passed  out  of  her  hands,  like  a 
boy  who  has  reached  manhood  and  leaves  his  mother's 
house.  There  was  nothing  she  could  teach  the  Vice- 
President;  events  themselves  were  educating  him  far  more 
richly  than  she  could  even  fathom,  and,  besides,  he  had  a 

386 


A    NEW    LIFE-WORK 

new  teacher — her  father.  From  daughter  to  father  this 
fascinating  human  dynamo  had  passed,  and  all  the 
daughter  had  left  was  an  occasional  half -hour  with  a  pre 
occupied  husband,  an  evening  of  opera,  a  rare  vacation 
that  made  her  feel  like  a  doll  more  than  a  wife. 

And  yet,  what  else  had  she  in  the  world?  She  felt 
widowed;  she  felt  that  her  lover  was  dead.  Her  married 
life  seemed  to  end  when  they  moved  to  New  York.  Of 
course  she  could  not  but  know  that  she  was  one  of  many 
wives  in  a  civilization  that  overworks  its  men  and  makes 
them  unfit  for  home  relationships.  But  this  knowledge 
was  cold  comfort  to  her  aching  heart. 

Before  her  marriage  there  had  been  excitements  of  court 
ships,  care-free  travel,  the  running  of  the  household,  and 
the  philanthropic  work.  She  had  now,  however,  no  desire 
to  set  up  relationships  with  the  young  men  who  would 
have  been  glad  to  woo  her;  her  love  for  Kirby  ran  too 
deep.  Travel  now  was  full  of  the  care  of  her  brooding 
husband,  or  separation  from  him  made  her  lonesome. 
The  running  of  the  household  after  the  first  joyous  weeks 
of  heading  again  a  well-oiled  machine  became  too  easy 
and  monotonous.  And  as  for  the  philanthropic  work, 
that  was  being  so  well  handled  by  the  social  worker, 
in  fact  so  much  better  organized  and  directed  than 
she  had  dreamed  of,  that  it  was  totally  beyond  her 
now. 

In  short,  she  found  that  she  had  sunk  her  whole  existence 
in  Kirby,  and  Kirby  had  run  off  with  it.  What  was  left? 
She  was  a  woman  out  of  a  job. 

As  a  result  she  became  a  restless  American  woman,  test 
ing  and  flinging  aside  one  fad  after  another — now  it  was 
a  Hindoo  prophet;  now  a  new  system  of  medicine;  now 
a  new  beauty  cult;  or  the  craze  for  a  freakish  artist. 
She  contemplated  trying  woman's  suffrage  activity;  she 
thought  of  learning  Grecian  dancing.  Yet  she  found  that 
there  was  really  nothing  to  do  but  be  idle,  to  dress  well, 
to  make  a  good  showing.  And  as  she  went  on  she  ac- 
26  387 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

quired  a  positive  hatred  for  social  functions  and  the 
people  who  circled  round  her. 

Now  Mary  was  a  woman  of  native  power ;  she  had  much 
of  her  father  in  her.  Hence,  to  compel  her  to  live  a 
trifling  life  was  to  clog  and  stop  her  up  so  that  she  seethed 
with  restlessness  and  broke  out  every  now  and  then  in 
some  queer  way.  She  had  been  used,  both  before  and 
after  her  marriage,  to  rich  days  of  hard  work  and  hard 
play;  idleness  was  killing.  She  became  neurotic,  keeping 
her  doctor  busy  diagnosing  her,  tried  electric  treatments, 
Christian  Science,  osteopathy,  water-cure,  and  knew  in 
her  secret  mind  all  the  time  that  only  two  things  ailed  her 
— she  wanted  the  satisfaction  of  the  two  primal  instincts, 
those  concerned  with  love  and  work. 

The  desire  for  love  in  this  strong,  upright  woman  was 
pathetic.  She  would  never  have  admitted  to  Kirby  what 
it  would  mean  to  her  if  he  kissed  her  and  fondled  her  as 
he  had  done  at  Moose  Lake. 

Naturally  there  were  many  times  when  she  thought 
again  of  a  baby — the  matter  she  and  Kirby  had  discussed 
in  the  early  Pittsburgh  days.  But  her  feeling  then  was 
that  she  must  give  her  time  and  strength  wholly  to  Kirby; 
that  in  those  crucial  years  of  development  she  had  to  be 
mother  as  well  as  wife  to  him.  Kirby  had  felt,  besides, 
that  a  child  would  saddle  them  with  financial  problems 
that  would  endanger  their  home  on  his  small  salary. 

"Besides,"  he  argued,  "a  child  anchors  a  family  down. 
No  more  traveling;  no  more  freedom." 

There  was  a  more  subtle  reason,  a  woman's  reason,  that 
troubled  Mary.  This  was  the  vividly  remembered  death 
of  her  sister  Alice.  She  had  said  to  Kirby  once,  "There's 
nothing  sadder  in  the  world  than  that."  She  had  a 
strange,  unreasonable  feeling  that  she  was  to  meet  the 
same  fate;  that  the  little  new  life  would  emerge  in  the 
world  only  to  kill  her  and  itself.  The  mystery  and  terror 
of  the  process  appalled  her;  it  seemed  like  the  imposing 
of  a  death  sentence:  "After  nine  months  you  must  meet 

388 


A    NEW    LIFE-WORK 

this  day  of  doom — inescapably.  There  can  be  no  pardon, 
no  reprieve.  Once  let  the  process  start  and  it  will  in 
evitably  fulfil  itself." 

Now  in  these  desperate  days  the  thought  recurred  to 
her.  Here  was  a  natural  work  calling  her;  here  was  a 
woman's  functioning  which  possibly  she  had  no  right  to 
deny  herself.  The  sacred  gift  of  life  is,  in  a  sense,  only 
given  that  it  might  be  passed  on.  She  recalled  the  night 
before  her  marriage,  when  she  seemed  to  be  a  glorified 
gate  of  the  generations;  a  slave  to  the  Unborn.  Was  there 
not  something  wrong  and  unnatural  in  damming  the  racial 
flood?  For  what  else,  fundamentally,  was  she  created  a 
woman  ?  And  if  her  mother  had  suffered  to  give  her  birth, 
how  could  she  refuse  to  meet  the  ancient  doom  of  woman 
herself?" 

"Am  I  a  coward?"  she  asked  herself.  "Am  I  unsexed? 
Cannot  I  endure  and  suffer  as  well  as  the  meanest  and 
lowest  of  creatures?" 

Certainly,  if  to  be  a  modern  woman  meant  neurotic 
horror  of  the  most  elemental  thing  in  her  nature,  then  it 
might  be  better  to  abjure  mental  growth,  social  activity, 
and  become  a  domesticated  dullard. 

So  she  reasoned  at  times,  thrilling  at  the  thought  that 
she  had  the  power  to  reject  or  create  a  new  human  being; 
that  if  her  mother  had  rejected  her  she,  Mary,  with  all 
her  energy  and  dream  and  clear-blooded  womanhood, 
might  never  have  existed.  A  dream-world  surely! 

So  she  reasoned.  Yet  many  thoughts  checked  her.  She 
was  not  sure  that  a  baby  would  satisfy  her. 

"Possibly,"  she  thought,  "if  I  had  had  one  ten  years 
ago." 

Perhaps  it  was  too'late.  She  felt  mature,  sober,  too  old 
to  domesticate  herself.  A  woman  of  thirty-one  or  thirty- 
two  appeared  to  her  almost  on  the  verge  of  old  age.  And 
then  there  was  the  haunting  vision  of  her  fair  young  sister 
lying  dead.  They  had  told  her  such  ghastly  tales  of  that 
fiendish  night — that  night  that  had  driven  the  young 

389 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

husband  away  to  Europe  to  recklessly  squander  his  life 
in  dissipation. 

Nevertheless,  by  the  following  summer  her  desperation 
had  increased  to  the  point  where  agony  and  death  seemed 
preferable  to  an  idle  life.  There  was  absolutely  nothing 
else  to  do;  it  appeared  a  part  of  the  duty  of  an  American 
husband  to  keep  his  wife  from  engaging  in  anything 
useful. 

And  Kirby  at  last  agreed  with  her.  He  began  to  see  the 
necessity  of  having  an  heir;  he  could  not,  of  course,  live 
forever.  Besides,  he  figured  that  child-bearing  "would 
keep  Mary  quiet."  Her  outbreaks  of  irritation,  her  com 
plaints,  her  languors  and  strange  excitements,  her  nerves, 
all  interfered  with  his  comfort. 

And  so  they  entered  into  the  profound  and  thrilling 
mystery  of  life,  and  even  to  Kirby  came  the  thought  that 
no  creation  of  steel  industries  could  touch  even  the  hem 
of  this  natural  miracle. 

And  that  strange  winter  revolutionized  Mary.  To  begin 
with,  she  simplified  her  life — cut  out  society  and  feverish 
activity  and  fads,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  life  of  life  that 
was  now  using  her  as  a  channel.  Swiftly  through  her  ran 
the  tides  of  the  race,  and  she  awoke  to  find  that  she  had  a 
new  life-work. 

She  could  not  have  explained  the  quick  change  in  her 
spirit ;  there  was  no  reason  now  why  child-bearing  was  any 
more  important  than  it  had  seemed  before.  And  yet  she 
glowed  with  life.  When  she  thought  of  the  seed  that  was 
growing  in  her  into  a  human  being  she  went  about  fraught 
with  large  destinies,  as  if  she  were  a  mother  of  the  State. 
She  was  glorified  by  this  union  with  Nature,  with  the 
generations,  with  the  eager  rush  of  the  floods  of  life  ever 
beating  against  the  walls  of  her  body. 

She  felt  now  that  everything  else  in  her  experience 
receded  into  pettiness;  why,  she  could  not  tell.  Her  joy 
was  pure.  She  refused  to  import  a  layette  from  Paris, 
as  her  delighted  father  urged,  and  sat  down  like  her  mother 

390 


A    NEW    LIFE-WORK 

before  her  and  stitched  the  darling  little  baby-clothes 
herself.  Over  these  she  cooed  and  laughed  and  sang  little 
songs,  putting  love  and  joy  into  every  flash  of  the  needle. 
It  was  a  sight  in  the  evening  to  see  her  in  her  sitting-room, 
the  white  filmy  stuff  in  her  lap,  her  eager  head  bent,  her 
fingers  flying.  Jordan  grew  amazingly  tender.  He  re 
called  his  wife,  who  had  once  been  young  and  expectant, 
too. 

"Meg,"  he  would  whisper,  "I  can't  believe  it's  you." 

And  she  would  lift  a  blushing  face  and  brown  eyes  that 
were  luminous  with  the  inner  light. 

"You're  getting  more  and  more  beautiful  every  day, 
Mary  Madonna." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed,  "I'm  getting  so  that  I  can't  appear 
in  public.  Beautiful!" 

Kirby  felt  uneasy;  he  didn't  know  how  to  treat  this 
miraculous  love-overflowing  wife.  He  tried  hard  to  be 
gentle  and  tender. 

"Say,"  he  would  break  in,  gruffly,  "aren't  you  straining 
your  eyes?"  Or,  "Let  me  get  that  for  you;  you  ought  to 
keep  quiet." 

Then  she  would  pat  his  cheek  and  laugh  merrily. 

"Oh,  Kirby,  when  you  try  to  be  polite  you're,  absurdly 
funny." 

His  uneasiness  increased  with  the  months.  Spiritual 
matters,  miracles  irreducible  to  business,  made  him  squirm. 
He  resisted  their  softening  effect.  Swelling  emotions  ap 
peared  incompatible  with  running  a  steel  industry. 

At  this  time  Mary  was  firmly  convinced  that  every 
thought  of  hers,  every  mood  and  every  action,  were  regis 
tered  on  the  growing  child.  She  felt  that  in  this  innocent 
blank  she  was  writing  ineradicably  her  passing  moment. 
The  responsibility  of  this  was  overwhelming;  she  could 
produce,  then,  a  weakling,  a  criminal,  or  a  genius.  Hence 
the  necessity  of  leading  a  miraculous  life. 

So  she  took  long  daily  walks  to  fit  herself  physically, 
and  marveled,  as  she  passed  through  the  streets,  that  she 

391 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

had  never  before  noticed  how  many  women  were  in  her 
condition.  She  was  convinced  that  half  the  population 
was  busied  with  this  process,  and  she  pitied  or  shared  her 
joy  with  these  others. 

"All  of  us,"  she  thought,  "are  sentenced." 

She  also  kept  fit  mentally — read  good  books,  heard  good 
music,  gave  herself  up  to  poetry  and  nature  and  tried 
desperately  never  to  lose  her  temper  and  always  to  think 
noble  thoughts.  Besides,  she  constantly  dreamed  of  what 
her  child  should  be:  if  a  girl,  a  creature  of  light  and  fire; 
if  a  boy,  some  kind  of  a  genius.  And  in  order  to  even  have 
a  hand  in  its  physical  formation  she  kept  constantly  before 
her  and  studied  devoutly  an  old  photograph  of  Kirby, 
taken  before  he  had  become  fat. 

"Like  this  you  must  look,"  she  said. 

If  there  had  been  anything  in  her  theory,  that  child 
would  have  been  the  wonder  of  the  world.  It  would  have 
risen  from  its  swaddling-clothes  and  spouted  Browning 
instead  of  sour  curds;  it  would  have  played  Beethoven 
with  its  tiny  waxen  fingers;  and  its  beauty  would  have 
stricken  the  watchers  with  dumb  amazement. 

Nevertheless,  this  feeling  of  responsibility  forced  her  to 
be  active,  body  and  brain,  gave  her  delicious  occupations, 
made  her  new  life-work  vital.  There  were  at  rare  intervals 
invasions  of  the  old  fear,  memories  of  her  sister  Alice.  She 
laughed  them  away. 

"What  do  I  care,"  she  asked,  "if  I  die  for  my  little 
one?" 

Human  life  became  infinitely  precious  and  miraculous 
to  her.  It  simply  seemed  wildly  impossible  that  there  was 
to  issue  from  her  body  a  living  child,  this  sensitive  complex 
of  vision,  dream,  passion,  and  trembling  possibilities.  She 
had  the  mood  of  the  Psalmist: 

"When  I  consider  the  heavens,  the  moon  and  the  stars 
thou  hast  made  .  .  .  ." 

It  thrilled  her  unspeakably  to  think  that  she  was  a 
vehicle  for  the  flame  and  the  glory  of  the  world. 

392 


A    NEW    LIFE-WORK 

As  the  time  approached — April — she  became  truly  a 
holy  creature;  awesome  and  lovely,  standing  in  the 
shadows  of  agony  and  death.  She  was  gentle,  sweet, 
grave;  into  her  face  went  a  large  thoughtfulness,  a  suf 
fused  and  placid  beauty  that  had  not  been  there  before. 
She  was  one  of  the  common,  every-day  sacrifices  of  the 
race;  what  roof  has  not  covered  such  a  heroine? 

She  was  fully  prepared,  tranquil,  brave.  Life  was  little 
to  give  in  exchange  for  this  partaking  of  the  mystery  and 
miracle. 

But  Kirby's  uneasiness  became  acute  agitation.  Jor 
dan,  too,  was  "on  pins  and  needles."  Both  were  forced 
to  face  the  fact  that  in  a  few  days  Mary  might  die.  And 
thus  rainy,  sunny,  windy  April  set  in. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Katie?"  was  the  question  that 
flew  about  the  Frost  Building  and  went  mouth  to  mouth 
down  Wall  Street. 

"Losing  his  grip?"  asked  one. 

"Oh,  I  guess  he's  going  insane.  The  business  is  wreck 
ing  him,"  suggested  another. 

"Looks  as  if  he  were  preparing  to  commit  suicide." 

For  he  went  about  positively  haunted  and  crazed. 
He  lost  all  interest  in  his  work,  labored  mechanically,  sat 
sometimes  chewing  an  unlit  cigar,  head  sunken  between 
his  shoulders,  eyes  bulging.  The  ringing  of  the  telephone 
racked  his  nerves.  He  was  dazed,  impotent,  useless. 

"Take  a  week  off,"  suggested  Jordan. 

"Can't.     Too  busy." 

"But,  man  alive,  you're  accomplishing  nothing.  You 
spoil  everything  you  touch." 

"Oh,  leave  me  alone,  dad." 

So  he  came  each  day,  a  demented  man.  He  had  made 
the  disquieting  discovery  that  he  loved  Mary  over 
whelmingly.  How  in  the  world  had  he  forgotten  this 
primal  fact? 

The  fifth  of  April  was  reminiscent  of  that  long-lost 
May-day  at  High  Hill — a  perfection  of  mild  blue  skies, 

393 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

little  winds,  suggestions  of  mud  and  blossoming  and  the 
mating  of  birds.  He  opened  his  office  window  and  heard 
the  restless  city  yearning  for  the  hills. 

At  four  that  afternoon  the  'phone  rang.    He  picked  it  up. 

"Hello!" 

"This  is  Mary." 

He  almost  dropped  the  receiver;  her  voice  was  quiet, 
yet  it  intimated  things  terrific,  the  end  of  the  world. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured. 

"You'd  better  come  home,  dear.  Oh,  I'm  all  right. 
But  come  home." 

Like  a  maddened  bull  charging  he  smashed  out  of  the 
office,  went  down  the  elevator,  leaped  into  a  taxicab,  and 
yelled  to  the  chauffeur  to ' '  run  like  hell  or  I  '11 —  But  the 
door  slammed. 

He  was  out  of  his  mind  on  the  way  up,  but,  arriving  at 
the  house,  he  dashed  up  the  steps,  unlocked  the  door,  and 
flew  to  the  second  floor.  A  doctor  and  trained  nurse  were 
already  in  the  bedroom,  and  Mary  stood  there  in  her  blue 
dressing-gown,  very  pale,  her  eyes  shining  brilliantly. 

"She's  beautiful,"  he  thought.  "Why  must  she  go 
through  this?" 

They  kissed  each  other. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said,  in  a  queer  voice,  for  she  was 
trying  to  keep  from  him  the  strange  fact  that  she  was 
terrified  beyond  all  reason.  "I'm  all  right.  Now  you 
go  down.  I  just  wanted  to  know  you  were  near." 

" Mary,"  he  whispered,  "what  can  I  do  for  you?  What 
can  I  do?" 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"Please  don't  worry,  dear.     I'm  all  right." 

But  she  was  not  all  right;  already  Nature  was  seizing 
her  and  swinging  her  to  and  fro  in  a  frightful  abyss,  making 
her  know  of  a  surety  that  never  had  a  woman  suffered  like 
this  before.  How  long  could  she  stand  it?  Her  body  was 
being  wrenched  in  two.  And  suddenly  she  seemed  panic- 
stricken. 

394 


A    NEW    LIFE-WORK 

"  Please  go,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  shot  him  out  of  the 
door.  The  nurse  closed  the  door  on  him  firmly,  and  fran 
tically  he  lunged  down  the  stairs  and  rushed  into  the 
sitting-room.  There  stood  Jordan  in  the  dim  light,  and 
both  knew  they  were  men — miserable,  wicked  men — and 
the  most  helpless  and  paltry  creatures  in  the  universe. 
Poor  old  Jordan  stood  there,  twisting  his  hands,  scared 
into  old  age. 

"Has  it  begun?"  he  asked. 

"Good  God!"  cried  Kirby,  "why  did  I  get  her  into  this 
trouble?" 

"You'd  better  take  some  whisky,"  suggested  Jordan. 

"Yes;  and  what  can  she  have?  Lord,  I've  been  brutal 
to  her.  Oh,  dad,  dad,  I  can't  stand  it." 

And  then  the  long  wait  began.  Time  and  again  they 
tiptoed  out  into  the  hall,  and  stood  on  the  lower  steps, 
listening.  No  sound  was  heard,  and  yet  up  there  in 
anguish  and  terror  a  new  soul  was  being  born  into  the 
human  world.  Kirby  went  to  the  window,  flung  it  open, 
heard  the  soft,  restless  April  night,  the  hum  of  the  careless 
city,  marveled  that  this  tragedy  was  lost  in  the  seething 
and  laughter  of  New  York.  Then  Jordan  sat  down,  and 
Kirby  began  pacing  the  floor,  flinging  off  his  coat,  tear 
ing  open  his  collar,  running  his  hand  through  his  hair. 
The  only  break  was  when  another  doctor  and  another 
nurse  hurried  up  the  stairs. 

"Why  another  doctor?"  asked  Kirby. 

"Oh,"  said  Jordan,  "to  give  an  anesthetic  if  it's  neces 
sary." 

A  harsh  new  fear  possessed  him,  and  the  tense  minutes 
passed  one  by  one.  Now  they  heard  the  door  open  and 
shut  and  the  hurry  of  a  nurse  in  the  hall.  Now  only  a 
dead  and  infinite  hush.  It  seemed  that  they  could  wait 
no  longer;  as  if  their  heart's  blood  was  being  wrung  out 
drop  by  drop. 

"And  she  looked  so  beautiful,  so  pale,  and  her  eyes 
shone  so,"  thought  Kirby. 

395 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

Seven  o'clock  came — eight — nine.  Again  and  again 
they  went  and  listened.  Then  at  nine-fifteen  Kirby  grew 
white  as  a  sheet  and  tottered. 

"Was  that  Mary?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  whispered  Jordan. 

Kirby  could  not  believe  it;  Mary  would  never  give 
way  like  that. 

"Oh!"  he  whimpered,  "oh!" 

A  knife  was  stuck  in  his  heart  and  twisted  round  while 
those  screams  of  the  creation-moment  rang  through  the 
house.  Then  terrifying  silence  followed.  Was  she  dead? 
Kirby  clung  to  the  stair-post. 

The  door  opened  above;  a  nurse  appeared  shadowy  on 
the  landing. 

"Mr.  Trask?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  a  boy." 

Strange,  convulsive  tremors  attacked  Kirby's  chest, 
reached  through  his  throat,  and  the  hard  fighter  of  steel 
changed  into  a  weeping  father.  He  sobbed;  his  heart 
melted;  divine  love  and  tenderness  and  relief  swept 
through  him.  He  climbed  the  stairs;  he  paused  at  the 
half-open  door. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"A  moment,"  whispered  the  nurse. 

He  entered.  There  on  the  bed  lay  Mary,  her  face  white 
and  bathed  in  sweat,  her  lips  smiling  sweetly,  her  eyes 
almost  shut.  Her  beauty  was  complete;  the  ineffable 
wonder  of  motherhood  lay  on  the  dreamy  face.  And  all 
at  once  a  strange  sound,  like  the  noise  of  a  fighting  cat, 
rose  from  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Kirby. 

And  the  nurse  lifted  it — the  queerest,  knobby-headed, 
red  little  boy-baby  that  had  ever  been  supremely  ugly. 

"It's  your  son,"  she  said. 


XXXV 

THE   ERRAND 

TO  Mary  there  came  now  the  marvelous  moments 
when  she  was  merely  a  tide  of  love  that  went  out 
and  enfolded  the  little  life  that  fed  on  her.  In  her  ecstasy 
she  could  not  sleep  that  first  night,  but  lay  laughing  softly 
whenever  she  heard  a  stir  in  the  bassinet  or  that  strange, 
squawking  cry. 

"Ah,"  she  breathed,  "the  poor  little  thing." 

Once  she  dozed,  and  waking  suddenly  exclaimed: 

' '  Where  is  he  ?     I  can't  see  him. ' ' 

Such  was  her  stretched  weakness  that  the  raising  of 
a  hand  was  no  mean  enterprise.  The  nurse  put  the  child 
beside  her  where,  by  turning  her  head,  she  could  gaze  at 
it.  Never  had  she  seen  such  tiny  perfection;  such  foam 
of  fingers,  such  utterly  little  lips,  such  wonderful  deep  eyes. 
To  be  sure,  the  head  was  frightfully  misshapen,  so  much  so 
that  Kirby  knew  secretly  that  the  boy  was  deformed  and 
was  badly  frightened.  But  to  Mary  the  baby  was  in 
effably  beautiful. 

The  fact  that  it  lived,  breathed,  cried,  opened  and  shut 
its  eyes,  stirred  about,  that  its  heart,  no  bigger  than  the 
tip  of  a  thumb,  beat  against  her,  was  to  her  an  impossible 
miracle.  Had  the  heavens  opened  and  the  child  descended 
to  her  through  flames  she  could  not  have  been  more 
divinely  amazed. 

"And  I'm  his  mother,"  she  thought,  "and  Kirby  is  his 
father." 

All  life  had  changed;  she  and  her  husband  had  joined 
397 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

a  receding  generation,  and  this  helpless  seven  pounds  of 
baby  raised  in  the  night  the  cry  of  the  future.  From  hand 
to  hand  the  torch  passed,  and  the  light  in  the  eager  chil 
dren's  faces  cast  into  the  shadow  the  aging  parents.  But 
were  the  parents  not  living  all  over  again  in  the  children, 
vicariously  experiencing  a  new  existence?  At  least  for 
the  present  Mary  lived  so;  her  whole  being  in  the  hunger 
and  sleep  and  stir  of  the  babe. 

Kirby  entered  in  the  morning  with  awkward,  soft  tread; 
his  gentleness  with  her  was  exquisite. 

"Ah,  Kirby,"  she  murmured,  while  he  fondled  her 
delicate,  blue-veined  hands,  which  seemed  bloodless  and 
weak,  "you  love  me  again,  don't  you?" 

He  leaned  to  hide  the  tears. 

"I  always  have,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

"And  our  son,"  she  went  on,  "don't  you  think  he's 
beautiful?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  he  lied,  devoutly. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  cunning  little  fellow?" 

"Never." 

"  Go  and  look  at  him  again." 

He  lumbered  over  and  gazed  on  the  malformed  thing. 

"You  haven't  held  him  yet,  have  you?" 

"No,"  said  Kirby,  in  a  fright. 

"You  must,  then.  He's  so  little.  Miss  Wilkins,  let 
him  have  the  baby." 

So  the  bundle  was  lifted  and  a  paralyzed  Vice-President 
held  it  out  as  if  he  expected  it  to  explode. 

Mary  laughed. 

"Son,  what  do  you  think  of  your  clumsy  father?  Oh, 
take  it  away  from  him;  he'll  drop  it." 

The  nurse  accompanied  Kirby  to  the  door,  but  out  of 
ear-shot  he  spoke  eagerly: 

"  Come  in  the  hall  a  moment." 

She  stepped  out.     He  put  the  fateful  question: 

"Say,  is  the  kid's  head  all  right?" 

She  laughed  merrily. 

398 


THE    ERRAND 

"Surely.  It  '11  come  round  in  time.  Most  of  them  are 
that  way." 

He  swore  with  relief,  and  went  down  to  breakfast. 

The  child  made  a  great  change  in  the  house.  All  life 
revolved  about  it;  the  servants,  the  callers,  and  the  two 
men  became  gentle  and  eager  servitors  of  the  divine 
visitor.  A  sweet  spirit  reigned  that  seemed  to  evoke  in 
each  something  benign  and  kindly. 

Kirby  now  understood  how  grossly  he  had  failed  as  a 
husband,  how  little  time  even — to  say  nothing  of  affection 
and  comradeship — he  had  given  his  precious  wife.  He 
recalled  remorsefully  how  she  had  wrapped  her  whole 
existence  in  him  in  the  Pittsburgh  days,  given  him  all, 
inspired  and  checked  him,  kept  him  to  his  career. 

"Yes,  Mary  made  me,"  he  told  himself.  "Mary  made 
me." 

His  debt  to  her  seemed  almost  as  great  as  the  debt  of 
life  the  new  baby  owed  its  mother;  and  yet  the  only  pay 
ment  she  had  asked  of  him  was  his  love  and  fondness  and 
a  little  of  his  time  and  strength.  He  had  failed  even  to 
give  these  trifles.  And  now  she  had  endured  agony  and 
risked  death  to  bear  him  a  child,  and  by  this  one  sacrifice 
belittled  to  pettiness  his  strenuous  life  and  growing  great 
ness.  For  what  were  steel  rails  and  telephones  compared 
with  that  tiniest  babe,  that  helpless  littleness  crying  for 
arms  to  hold  it  tight,  which  by  its  mere  appearance  made 
a  dusty  household  overflow  with  tenderness  and  mercy? 

Of  course  civilization  had  still  to  be  captained,  else  it 
might  collapse.  The  people  must  be  fed.  Machines  and 
commerce  must  continue.  And  he,  as  a  captain,  could  not 
desert  his  post.  His  responsibility  was  overwhelming; 
he  was,  in  a  sense,  performing  great  services  for  the  world; 
all  his  genius  and  power  were  harnessed  to  a  basic  industry. 
He  was,  after  all,  so  he  argued,  one  of  those  great  execu 
tives  who  help  to  keep  the  world  going,  help  to  get  the 
world's  work  done  day  by  day,  help  this  production  and 
distribution  which  builds  cities,  feeds,  clothes,  and  grows 

399 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

the  populations.  By  such  reasoning  he  could  condone  his 
falling  off  as  a  husband;  he,  too,  in  a  way,  was  a  sac 
rifice. 

Nevertheless,  he  decided  to  follow  Jordan's  wise  example 
and  delegate  large  portions  of  his  work  to  picked  special 
ists;  this  would  allow  him  greater  mobility.  And  as  a 
result  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  leaving  his  office  early  and 
stopping  in  on  the  way  up-town  to  get  flowers  or  a  delicacy 
for  Mary.  Then  the  twilight  hour  was  hers,  and  they 
would  sit  together  at  the  open  window  and  chat  affec 
tionately. 

Her  changed  personality  affected  him  profoundly,  for 
now  that  rarest  human  wisdom  of  all,  the  wisdom  of 
old  wives,  was  hers.  She  seemed  to  have  a  new  patience, 
a  larger  understanding,  a  mellowness  of  spirit,  a  richer 
intonation  of  the  voice.  She  looked  older,  her  face  fuller, 
with  beautiful  lines  of  pain  and  experience  and  darker 
tints  of  life  in  the  eyes.  It  was  the  ripening  process  of 
primal  functioning.  She  was  a  woman  now  who  knew 
life,  who  had  lived,  seasoned  by  pain,  purified  by  love.  She 
was  that  star  of  the  race — the  mother. 

And  so  once  again  a  woman  evoked  the  angelic  in 
Kirby,  and  for  a  while  the  lover  in  him  was  balanced 
against  the  schemer  and  fighter. 

"You're  changed,"  said  Mary;  "you're  my  old  boy 
again." 

"That's  because  I'm  jealous  of  the  new  boy." 

"Jealous!"  She  laughed  with  the  soft  delight  that 
always  came  when  she  thought  of  the  baby.  "Why,  he's 
getting  to  look  more  like  you  every  day." 

"You  mean  his  hands  and  feet." 

"No;  everybody  says  so.  The  doctor  said  so  this 
morning." 

"Then  I'm  sorry  for  him,"  said  Kirby.  "But  why  was 
the  doctor  here?" 

Mary  laughed  brightly. 

"I  won't  stand  for  that  scientific  nurse.  She  tries  to 
400 


THE    ERRAND 

bring  him  up  as  if  he  were  a  machine.  I  guess  my  in 
stincts  know  more  than  her  old  maid's  brain!" 

These  things  amused  Kirby  vastly.  That  baby  was 
evidently  the  most  sensitive  organism  that  ever  tried  to 
weather  the  blows  of  this  world.  Wrangles  went  on  as 
to  whether  he  should  lie  on  his  right  side  or  his  left; 
whether  he  should  be  allowed  to  cry  until  his  heart  broke 
(or  he  fell  asleep  with  tear-drops  on  the  filmy  lids)  or  his 
mother  should  snatch  him  up  and  cuddle  and  spoil  him. 

"Ah,"  murmured  Mary,  "I  can't  let  him  cry.  He's  so 
tiny." 

And  every  time  the  infant  sneezed  she  insisted  on  tele 
phoning  the  doctor.  She  endured  a  series  of  divine  terrors 
over  the  most  amazing  trifles;  leaping  out  of  bed  at  one 
in  the  morning  because  she  had  a  feeling  that  a  safety-pin 
was  open  and  would  stab  him  to  death,  or  running  up 
two  flights  of  stairs  to  see  if  he  was  in  a  draught. 

For  a  while  she  nursed  him,  and  lived  very  strictly 
again,  lest  temper,  or  salad,  or  weariness  should  give  him 
colic.  But  when  he  was  put  on  a  bottle  her  new  problems 
staggered  her;  every  formula  that  disagreed  with  him 
causing  her  to  torture  herself.  And  of  course  daily  she 
weighed  him  and  was  ecstatic  or  miserable  over  the 
scales.  It  was  a  very  little  business,  maybe,  taking  care 
of  one  child,  yet  she  found  it  an  enterprise  that  exhausted 
her. 

Kirby  of  course  was  fiercely  proud  that  he  had  a  son; 
he  bragged  about  the  small  man  whenever  he  had  a 
chance.  But  his  joy  was  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
happiness  of  old  Watts.  That  white-haired  grandfather 
found  his  second  childhood  with  the  baby.  He  insisted 
on  bringing  home  a  new  rattle  every  day,  and  it  was  a 
sight  to  watch  him  crowing  and  laughing  and  playing  with 
the  placid  youngster.  He  would  seize  it  up  and  go  thump 
ing  up  and  down  the  room,  making  ridiculous  noises.  He 
would  blow  a  horn  for  it  and  ring  bells  in  its  ears.  Or  he 
would  keep  building  up  fires  in  the  grate  because  the  baby's 

401 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

face  lit  up  whenever  the  flames  gurgled.  His  delight  knew 
no  bounds,  and  his  pride  was  insufferable.  Naturally  the 
baby  had  been  named  Jordan  Watts  Trask,  and  what 
greater  joy  could  there  be  than  in  petting  and  playing  with 
his  namesake? 

Mary  delighted  in  watching  the  two  together — the  old 
and  the  new  child;  but  she  had  to  admit  now  that  her 
father  was  an  old  man.  That  first  pathetic  agedness  she 
had  witnessed  on  the  night  in  Maine  when  she  had  broken 
his  will  over  Kirby  had  now  reached  the  point  where  it 
was  daily  in  evidence. 

That  summer  the  family  was  moved  by  motor  up  to 
High  Hill.  It  was  a  season  of  simple  happiness;  yet  for 
Mary  there  was  one  ominously  tragic  event.  This  was 
the  discarding  of  the  baby's  long  clothes  for  shorter  ones. 
She  mourned  over  the  fact. 

"He's  a  baby  no  longer,"  was  her  thought;  "he's 
growing  up." 

And  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  life  was  cruelly  brief; 
the  child  in  arms  turning  into  a  man  overnight,  the  man 
growing  old  at  once  like  her  father.  Soon,  she  felt,  she 
would  be  out  of  a  job  again;  her  new  life-work  over.  But 
then  she  would  be  old  herself. 

The  two  Jordans  had  become  great  chums ;  each  day  saw 
one  in  the  arms  of  the  other  borne  over  the  grass  and  out 
to  the  stables,  to  the  wonders  of  cows,  horses,  and  pigs. 
But  the  old  man  often  ailed;  he  had  recurrences  of  his 
dizzy  spells,  and  when  the  family  returned  in  the  autumn 
he  went  again  to  his  doctor. 

The  physician  spoke  very  emphatically. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do — retire  at  once.  Other 
wise  I  won't  be  responsible  for  you.  You've  lived  a  dozen 
lives  already,  and  the  body  won't  stand  for  it." 

Jordan  laughed. 

"Oh,  I'm  good  for  a  little  fun  yet.  However,  give  me 
till  the  first  of  the  year." 

He  certainly  was  good  for  "a  little  fun,"  as  events 

402 


THE    ERRAND 

proved.  In  November  he  was  sixty-seven  years  old,  and 
the  approach  of  this  birthday  brought  a  spontaneous  rally 
of  the  metropolis  around  the  old  man.  There  was  a 
general  understanding  that  the  time  had  come  to  celebrate 
a  great  American. 

A  banquet  then  was  held  in  his  honor  in  the  ballroom 
of  one  of  the  great  hotels;  three  hundred  of  the  nation's 
high  and  mighty,  men  and  women,  sat  at  the  glittering 
tables  in  floods  of  soft  light  and  under  streamers  of  black 
and  gold,  and  the  balconies  were  crowded  with  visitors. 
On  the  raised  platform,  fronting  the  brilliant  audience,  ran 
the  long  speakers'  table,  and  in  the  center  sat  a  little 
white-haired  man  smiling  radiantly.  No  dizziness  to 
night;  he  felt  clear,  strong,  powerful — one  of  the  dynasts 
in  a  young  democracy. 

Speaker  after  speaker  eulogized  him.  "More  than  any 
other  living  man  he  has  helped  to  make  a  world-empire 
of  America."  He  had  proved  in  his  own  life  how  the  low 
become  high  in  a  republic;  he  was  compared  to  Lincoln 
and  Washington;  he  was  analyzed  as  a  man  who  had 
brought  prosperity  to  millions,  given  the  workers  employ 
ment,  built  cities,  and  yet  in  his  latter  days  had  risen  to 
the  supreme  heights  of  philanthropy,  scattering  his  mil 
lions  with  a  lavish  hand  to  heal  and  bless  and  bring 
knowledge  and  peace  to  the  people. 

"And  yet,"  said  one  speaker,  "demagogues  of  discon 
tent  have  arisen  who  would  seek  to  defame  him  with  cries 
of  plutocracy.  But  the  sober  sense  of  the  American 
people  will  crush  these  malcontents,  these  anarchists  and 
enemies  of  the  republic.  If  Jordan  Watts  is  a  plutocrat, 
let  us  have  millions  such!" 

This  was  a  new  note  at  a  banquet;  possibly  the  first 
public  appearance  of  the  shadow  of  a  new  national  struggle. 
The  audience  applauded  wildly,  rising  and  shouting. 

Jordan  was  deeply  stirred  by  this.  Of  late  he  had  been 
forced  to  become  cognizant  of  a  new  cry  that  was  being 
raised.  He  had  always  looked  upon  himself  as  a  benefac- 
27  403 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

tor  and  an  inevitable  dynast,  skipping,  perhaps,  many 
pages  of  his  life-story;  yet  here  was  a  young  politician  in 
Ohio  making  a  speech  that  echoed  over  the  land,  wherein 
he  warned  the  people  that  their  power  was  passing  into 
the  hands  of  the  few,  and  that  the  monstrous  Trust  was 
an  Octopus,  whose  tentacles  spread  over  America  and 
sucked  the  life-blood  of  the  people;  and  here  in  a  popular 
magazine — a  sturdy  offshoot  of  Harrington's — there  was 
appearing  a  series  of  articles  on  "The  History  of  Standard 
Oil,"  wherein  it  was  shown  that  that  corporation  had 
risen  by  slaying,  crushing,  and  defrauding  men,  and  an 
appeal  was  made  for  a  new  moral  awakening.  Kirby,  of 
course,  had  also  been  made  aware  of  these  things,  and  the 
shock  had  been  rude.  He  had  thought  that  the  great 
industries  were  based  on  a  rock,  that  here  at  last,  above 
the  drudges  and  skyrockets,  was  security  and  lasting 
power;  and  yet  for  a  quivering  moment  he  had  the  feeling 
that  they  were  merely  larger  growths  of  a  J.  J.  business, 
based  upon  quicksand.  But  the  thought  that  his  power 
and  wealth  might  sink  under  him  was  too  monstrous  to 
entertain;  besides,  he  had  daily  proofs  of  the  rigidity  and 
endurance  of  the  machine,  and  the  strength  of  his  will. 
So  he  put  the  thought  by  as  idle. 

Nevertheless,  when  Jordan  arose  at  the  banquet  and 
raised  his  clear  voice,  which  carried  through  the  hushed 
hall,  he  began  his  address  with  a  warning: 

"  I  am  glad  the  last  speaker  denounced  the  demagogue. 
Every  time  a  man  succeeds  a  dozen  fail,  and  the  failures, 
in  their  bitterness,  are  willing  to  wreck  the  whole  social 
order,  that  they  may  gain  by  violence  what  they  were  too 
weak  to  gain  by  honest  labor.  Beware  the  failures!  If 
they  should  mislead  the  people,  the  splendid  machinery 
of  civilization  we  have  reared  in  the  Western  world  will  be 
stopped  and  smashed  by  anarchy,  and  America  will  meet 
the  doom  of  ancient  Rome.  Better  than  agitation,  new 
mills;  better  than  discontent,  the  smoke  of  factories,  the 
hum  of  cities,  the  crowding  of  schools;  better  than  dem- 

404 


THE   ERRAND 

agogy,   unclogged   industries    that    bring  peace    to  the 
world." 

Then  he  went  on  to  repeat  his  famous  and  naive 
"advice  to  young  men";  such  scattered  pearls  as 
these: 

"It  is  not  riches  that  matter:  they  alone  don't  make  a 
man  happy.  It's  knowing  'I  wronged  no  man.'"  "You 
can  have  a  happy  home  on  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Young 
men,  marry.  Own  a  bit  of  land,  and  be  a  free  king  in  our 
victorious  democracy."  "I  consider  a  man  who  helps 
himself  as  ten  times  better  than  a  man  who  requires  help." 
"If  I  have  shown  one  thing  in  my  life,  it  is  that  any  one 
of  ability,  who  is  willing  to  work  and  to  save,  can  rise  to 
the  top." 

They  applauded  him  vociferously;  they  rose  and  drank 
a  birthday  toast;  and  surely,  gazing  at  the  flower  of 
civilization  below  him,  he  could  not  help  but  feel  that  he 
was  a  successful  man.  Messenger-boy  to  multimillionaire, 
obscurity  to  this  sweet  fame,  years  of  struggle  to  this  su 
preme  hour  of  world-recognition;  what  life  had  ever 
been  more  romantic  than  his?  And  this  surely  was  the 
crowning  moment  in  his  career;  for  not  alone  the  three 
hundred  faced  him  and  heard  his  words  and  applauded. 
No,  he  spoke  straight  to  the  eighty  millions  of  America 
and  the  hundred  millions  of  Europe;  for  in  a  few  hours 
the  newspapers  from  the  tip  of  Florida  to  utmost  Oregon, 
from  London  to  St.  Petersburg,  would  scatter  his  message 
and  his  triumph  among  the  nations.  The  whole  civilized 
world  would  exult  in  him. 

But  when  Kirby  and  Mary  got  him  at  last  into  the 
automobile  they  found  him  so  exhausted  that  he  could 
not  speak.  They  had  to  help  him  up  the  stairs  to  his  bed 
room  and  he  had  to  be  undressed. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Mary,  "the  dinner  was  too  much  for 
him." 

And  in  the  morning,  when  he  came  tottering  in  to 
breakfast,  Mary  was  genuinely  alarmed. 

405 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

"Oh,  it's  nothing — just  a  dizzy  spell — let  me  see  the 
papers." 

The  headlines  pleased  him:  "Public  Banquet  to  Jordan 
Watts";  "A  Speech  of  National  Importance";  "Amer 
ica's  Richest  Man  at  the  Height  of  His  Career";  "Warn 
ing  against  Agitators";  "Advice  to  Young  Men." 

His  hand  trembled  over  his  coffee. 

"Father,"  said  Mary,  "please  don't  go  down-town 
to-day." 

"Oh,  I'm  going,"  he  said,  obstinately. 

She  argued  with  him,  but  it  was  useless,  and  her  heart 
trembled  with  dread  when  she  saw  him  helped  across  the 
sidewalk  by  the  chauffeur.  But  he  turned  and  smiled  at 
her. 

"Don't  worry,  Meg." 

She  was  constrained  to  run  out  in  the  raw,  blustering 
weather  and  herself  wrap  a  robe  about  him.  Then  she 
kissed  him. 

"Come  home  early,  anyway." 

"I  will,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I've  made  a  date  with 
little  Jordan." 

He  dozed  a  little  on  the  way  down,  but  at  the  Frost 
Building  insisted  on  the  chauffeur  leaving  him  at  the 
elevator.  He  entered  the  offices  with  uncertain  step,  but 
nodded  brightly  to  the  employees,  then  stepped  into  his 
private  office  and  shut  the  door.  At  once  he  plunged  into 
his  work,  as  usual;  secretaries  came  and  went;  letters  were 
dictated;  notes  scribbled  on  postal  cards. 

Kirby  stopped  in  a  moment. 

"How  are  you,  dad?"  he  asked. 

"Chipper  and  happy.     Don't  I  look  it?" 

He  looked,  thought  Kirby,  unusually  old,  but  Kirby 
said  nothing,  and  went  back  to  his  work. 

The  old  man  was  alone  for  some  time,  mainly  telephon 
ing.  Outside  the  hard,  gray  heavens  went  gustily  by,  and 
the  wind  smote  the  windows,  but  Jordan  paid  no  atten 
tion.  He  was  toiling  terrifically,  as  usual. 

406 


THE    ERRAND 

Then  at  a  quarter  to  eleven  the  'phone  bell  rang. 
Jordan  leaned  over  to  the  instrument. 

"Hello!" 

"Long-distance  Washington;  Senator  Barlow  on  the 
wire." 

"Yes,  hello,  Senator!" 

"Hello,  Mr.  Watts!  It's  this  matter  of  appropriation 
for  the  Wyatt  Bridge—" 

"Yes,  John.  Now,  see  here."  His  brain  worked 
busily.  "That  project  has  got  to  go  through  before  the 
end  of  the  session.  My  Pittsburgh  people  tell — " 

That  was  all.  Simple  as  the  simplest  of  things,  and 
hence  profound  and  terrible.  An  old  man  merely  sank 
back  in  a  comfortable  chair,  and  at  a  snap  all  that  busyness 
of  thought,  of  empire,  of  dream  and  command,  vanished, 
and  left  behind  a  bundle  of  skin-wrapped  bones.  The  old 
messenger-boy  had  gone  on  an  errand  for  a  bigger  magnate 
than  himself. 


XXXVI 

THE    SKYSCRAPER 

"/'""CENTRAL"  warned  the  telephone  operator,  and  the 
\_^j  young  woman,  sensing  catastrophe,  rushed  into 
the  private  office.  She  saw  the  gray  face,  the  wide-open 
mouth,  and  ran  out  shrieking. 

"Mr.  Watts  is  dead,"  was  the  terrible  cry  that  sped 
through  the  place;  and  the  pale-faced,  panicky  employees 
and  Kirby  crowded  into  the  room.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  that  tremendous  life  could  stop. 

Kirby  felt  his  heart  bursting  within  him.  The  tragedy 
moved  him  inexplicably.  He  had  the  body  placed  on  the 
lounge,  and  sent  for  doctor  and  private  ambulance.  Of 
course  these  were  foolish  formalities,  yet  his  whole  being 
cried  out  for  action.  Something  must  be  done. 

Then,  standing,  looking  on  the  dead  clay,  he  remembered 
Old  Ferg.  The  worn-out  drudge,  the  worn-out  magnate, 
had  both  come  to  the  same  thing.  He  himself  was  hasten 
ing  through  his  excited  years  to  the  same  end.  All  came 
to  this.  And  of  what  use  were  empire  and  glory  and  the 
pageantry  of  the  world? 

He  felt  the  foolish  tears  rise  to  his  eyes;  tears  not  alone 
for  the  dead  man,  but  for  himself  and  for  all  human  beings. 
A  brief  glitter  in  the  sun  and  the  cruel  mystery  engulfed 
them.  Life  was  bitter,  he  felt,  fiendishly  bitter,  and  all 
his  greatness  fell  from  him,  and  the  dead  man  and  himself 
were  atoms  in  the  night,  one  still  troubled,  the  other 
evidently  passed  beyond  trouble.  And  this  personality 
that  once  had  struck  fear  and  admiration  in  his  heart,  that 

408 


THE    SKYSCRAPER 

once  he  had  envied  and  aped  and  fought  with,  was  now 
an  armful  of  ashes.  It  was  heart-breaking. 

He  hurried  home  ahead  of  the  body  and  found  Mary  in 
the  nursery,  holding  the  child.  His  quiet,  his  pallor,  when 
he  entered  the  room,  as  well  as  the  unusual  hour  of  his 
return,  made  her  quickly  put  the  baby  down.  She  stood 
up,  wide-eyed. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Father,"  he  began,  and  a  hoarse  sob  choked  him. 

Her  face  turned  white;  they  hugged  each  other  desper 
ately. 

"So  it's  come,"  she  whispered.     "Father!    Father!" 

And  later,  when  she  beheld  the  form  that  once  she  had 
seen  young  and  sprightly,  the  busy  father  who  had  fondled 
her  and  called  her  "Meg,"  the  inevitability  of  beautiful 
and  proud  youth  becoming  aged  and  wintry,  oppressed  her 
heart.  A  few  months  back  the  sweet  blossoming  new  life 
had  emerged  through  her;  now  a  similar  life,  after  the 
swift  process  of  the  years,  passed  into  death,  withered, 
sapless,  and  decaying.  Her  father,  too,  had  once  been  a 
baby,  a  sweet,  fresh  thing  at  his  mother's  breast!  And 
was  her  baby  now  to  become  this — this  misshapen  and 
worn-out  thing  ?  All  in  a  few  years !  She  and  Kirby  first, 
but  day  by  day  the  change  in  that  young  and  dewy  babe! 
She  felt  as  if  these  thoughts  were  killing  her,  mingled  as 
they  were  with  her  powerful  love  for  her  father. 

But  the  body  was  laid  away;  the  baby  laughed  and 
cooed;  shopping  and  marketing  had  to  be  done;  friends 
called  and  sympathized ;  the  husband  returned  to  his  work ; 
and  though  the  old  house  knew  a  blank  in  itself,  as  if  its 
old  spirit  had  departed,  or  as  if  one  of  its  limbs  had  been 
amputated,  yet  the  routine  of  life,  the  clamorous  needy 
day  and  the  busy  night,  swept  the  family  on,  until  Jordan 
Watts  was  more  of  a  memory  than  a  presence.  He  had 
come,  shaken  the  world,  and  gone;  but  the  world  moved 
on  as  if  it  did  not  miss  him,  as  if  no  man  is  indispensable. 
After  the  first  swift  panic  in  Wall  Street,  which  Kirby 

409 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

stopped  by  making  an  official  statement  that  the  industry 
was  continuing  without  abatement,  business  and  life  in  the 
metropolis  took  the  old  stride,  and  the  world  revolved 
about  other  names. 

One  of  the  strangest  experiences  was  to  sit  at  table  every 
night  without  Jordan  there;  but  even  this  strangeness 
wore  off — the  vitality  of  these  human  beings  overflowing 
all  tragedy,  all  loss,  just  as  April  covers  the  barren 
pastures. 

However,  there  was  one  change  which  became  per 
manent.  When  the  will  was  read  it  was  found  that  nearly 
a  hundred  million  dollars  went  to  philanthropies,  much  of 
it  funded  in  a  Watts  Foundation,  which  was  to  make  a 
business  of  working  toward  World-Peace  and  higher  forms 
of  education.  The  rest  of  the  estate  descended  to  Mary 
and  Kirby  and  the  baby,  with  a  few  personal  donations 
excepted ;  and  thus  Kirby  stepped  into  absolute  power. 

"The  king  is  dead;  long  live  the  king!"  And  the  new 
king  became  at  once  one  of  the  international  figures  of 
America.  Now  a  newspaper  might  flash  a  heading: 

TRASK  SENDS  STEEL  SOARING 

His  power  was  unbelievable.  He  sat  now  in  Jordan's 
office  like  a  monstrous  brain  with  his  nervous  system 
spreading  out  over  the  continent;  truly  now  the  mills 
blazoned  the  sky  with  his  fame;  and  where  before  the 
name  of  Jordan  Watts  had  been  sown  over  the  cities 
until  every  tongue  echoed  it,  so  now  for  the  time  being  the 
name  of  Kirby  Trask.  The  day  of  that  curious  slogan, 
"Nobody  loves  a  millionaire,"  had  not  yet  dawned. 
"Katie"  he  was  called  popularly,  after  the  democratic 
fashion  of  calling  a  President  "Bill"  or  "Teddy,"  and,  like 
Jordan,  he  became  the  model  of  youth,  the  example  of 
American  success.  Such  chance  phrases  as  he  dropped 
were  apt  to  be  sold  on  placards  for  twenty-five  cents 
apiece,  and  had  he  stepped  into  the  Guthrie  Shorthand 

410 


THE    SKYSCRAPER 

School  he  would  have  been  surprised,  perhaps,  by  a  new 
legend  on  the  wall : 

"I  have  found  stenography  a  stepping-stone  to  commercial 
supremacy." — KIRBY  TRASK. 

He  was  a  multimillionaire  now;  and  as  honey  draws 
flies,  so  he  attracted  a  buzzing  swarm  of  the  great  and 
would-be  great.  Senators  and  Representatives  became 
his  friends;  the  President  of  the  United  States  called  him 
into  consultation;  the  mighty  heads  of  other  Trusts,  and 
those  powers  behind  all  the  other  powers,  the  great  Wall 
Street  financiers,  asked  him  into  their  homes  and  their 
clubs.  And  his  freedom  was  unlimited:  he  could  dress, 
act,  do  as  he  pleased;  come  and  go;  be  more  silent  than 
ever.  The  king  could  do  no  wrong ! 

Curiously  enough,  this  final  triumph  did  not  make  him 
any  happier.  It  had  come  gradually,  and  it  had  come 
through  death,  and  in  his  meditative  mood  he  felt  only 
the  crushing  burden  of  a  world-responsibility.  Now  there 
was  no  Jordan  to  spur  or  check  him;  no  teacher.  He 
had  to  look  for  all  strength  and  wisdom  in  himself.  He 
was,  in  his  business  hours,  the  loneliest  man  in  the  world. 
Naturally  cut  off  from  others  by  his  unsociable  manners, 
he  was  further  cut  off  by  his  feeling  that  every  man 
he  met  was  trying  to  best  him,  to  get  "something  out 
of  him,"  and  that  most  of  them  were  secret  enemies. 
Even  the  other  officers  of  the  company  affected  him  this 
way:  were  they  not  all  eager  to  seize  what  he  held? 

There  was  another  disturbing  element — the  rising  of  a 
tide  of  popular  discontent  all  over  the  country,  directed 
against  great  accumulations  of  wealth  and  power.  Daily 
this  tide  rose,  expressing  itself  in  "muck-raking,"  in 
Presidential  messages,  Congressional  investigations,  in 
strikes  of  labor,  and  in  governmental  suits  to  dissolve  the 
huge  trusts.  This  was  disquieting;  but  Kirby  paid  no 
serious  attention  to  it.  Every  age  has  its  "calamity- 

411 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

howlers,"  its  "agitators,"  he  argued.  In  the  first  flush 
of  success  he  could  not  be  expected  to  find  much  of  a 
menace  in  a  wrathful  democracy. 

He  felt  secure;  he  owned  the  major  interest  in  a  basic 
industry  that  must  last  as  long  as  civilization  lasts.  It 
was  absurd  to  think  that  this  power,  risen  from  the  people, 
would  flow  back  to  them.  All  he  had  to  do  surely  was 
to  hold  on,  and  neither  enemies  from  within  or  without 
could  budge  him  from  the  throne.  But  the  bright  wonder 
of  conquest  he  had  expected  was  not  here.  As  a  young 
man  he  had  felt  that  unlimited  dominion  would  plunge 
him  into  ecstasies;  but  here  were  both  he  and  Mary 
taking  it  all  as  a  part  of  the  day's  work,  a  part  of 
life. 

There  was,  however,  a  fresh  and  thrilling  element.  This 
was  his  unhindered  power  to  put  into  execution  the  new 
and  dazzling  schemes  he  had  in  his  head.  Such  was  his 
successful  project  to  absorb  the  only  large  rival  of  the 
Trust;  and  his  other  to  triple  the  exports  to  the  European 
markets.  He  engaged  also  in  much  rebuilding  of  the  mills, 
and  in  the  final  installation  of  scientific  management. 
In  this  field  he  was  a  pioneer,  half  a  dozen  years  ahead 
of  the  world. 

He  also  instituted  relief  work  among  the  workmen, 
doing  excellently  in  protecting  the  men  from  dangerous 
machinery,  in  rebuilding  mill-towns,  in  giving  medical 
attendance,  funds  for  accidents  and  sickness,  old-age 
pensions;  but  he  went  no  further.  Though  he  saw  the 
menace  of  that  black  shadow  of  a  struggle  between  the 
Olympians  and  the  Drudges  that  might  yet  imperil  the 
rule  of  the  magnates,  though  once  he  had  been  a  drudge 
himself,  he  continued  the  Trust  policy  of  spying  on  the 
men  to  prevent  their  organizing,  of  working  them  a  twelve- 
hour  day. 

"There  shall  be  only  one  master  in  this  house,"  he 
thought,  and  left  this  peril  to  the  future. 

For  some  time  he  and  Mary  conferred  over  the  problem 
412 


THE    SKYSCRAPER 

of  what  monument  to  build  to  her  father's  memory. 
Finally  he  hit  upon  an  original  plan. 

"  It  must  be  down  where  he  lived  and  died,"  said  Kirby ; 
"down  in  the  business  district.  And  it  must  have  steel 
in  it,  and  tower  over  the  metropolis." 

In  short,  he  projected  the  Watts  Building,  the  tallest 
in  the  city.  Some  of  the  newspapers  made  merry  over 
this.  One  jesting  reporter  wrote:  "Making  a  Mausoleum 
Pay.  .  .  .  Here's  a  tomb  that  is  going  to  pay  rents  and 
profits.  A  modern  pyramid  that  isn't  going  to  go  to 
waste;  it's  to  be  steam-heated,  electric-lit,  and  have  ex 
press  elevators,  vacuum-cleaners,  mail-chutes,  and  a  few 
corporations.  ..." 

Possibly  Kirby  saw  his  error  in  publicly  calling  it  a 
monument,  but  he  held  on  grimly,  and  while  it  was  in 
process  often  he  had  the  chauffeur  run  the  car  past  it, 
or  pause  before  it,  while  he  leaned  out,  and  with  his  pierc 
ing  eyes  gazed  at  the  yawning  rent  in  the  ground,  the 
laborers  swarming  like  flies  over  the  rocks  and  dust,  the 
drills  thumping  and  steaming,  the  steam-shovel  "eating 
up  the 'dirt." 

And  as  he  saw  it  rise,  a  great  rust-red  skeleton  of  steel, 
and  the  red-hot  rivets  were  flattened  with  the  clamorous 
air-hammer,  and  the  derricks  hoisted  and  placed  the 
beams,  and  the  hardy  iron-workers  balanced  dizzily  on  a 
foot- wide  flooring,  he  thought:  "I  am  changing  the  sky 
line  of  New  York;  I  am  topping  the  metropolis  with  a 
statue  to  Steel;  I  am  showing  my  power  before  the 
people.  At  night  my  tower-light  will  be  seen  through  all 
New  York." 

It  was  probably  as  much  a  monument  to  living  Kirby  as 
to  dead  Watts.  But  it  rose,  and  there  it  stood  at  last, 
in  the  autumn,  forty-five  stories  of  granite  and  marble 
and  steel. 

Kirby  had  planned  to  have  the  top  floor  and  the  tower 
set  apart  for  the  company,  with  the  circular  room  at  the 
tower's  top  fitted  for  himself.  Windows  were  to  rir- 

413 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

cumscribe  it  so  that  one  could  see  the  whole  circle  of  the 
city  beneath,  that  city  terrifically,  beautifully  alive  in 
rush  of  white  light,  in  great  blowing  of  smokes. 

Kirby  had  to  go  West  in  September;  he  reached  home 
again  in  October,  late  at  night.  Mary's  first  word  was: 

"The  building's  finished.     It's  wonderful." 

Kirby  had  the  curious  sense  of  coming  into  his  kingdom. 

Then  the  next  morning  a  divine  surprise  awaited  him. 
As  he  entered  the  hall  to  go  down  to  breakfast  Mary  called 
him  from  the  next  room: 

"Come  into  the  nursery,  Kirby." 

He  went  in.  The  snug  room,  with  its  brass  crib  and  tiny 
white  furniture,  shone  with  bright  morning,  and  on  the 
lap  of  that  mature  woman  whose  beauty  now  was  ma 
tronly  (how  Mary  would  have  hated  the  word!)  sat  the 
little  boy,  already,  with  his  large  head  and  gray  eyes, 
a  replica  of  Kirby. 

Kirby  leaned  and  kissed  his  wife. 

•  "What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  excitement,  her  eyes 
shining.  She  stood  the  little  fellow  on  the  floor  between 
her  knees. 

"Stand  over  there  and  wait,"  she  said  to  Kirby,  and  to 
her  son,  "Go  to  daddy!" 

•  And  the  miracle  happened.     The  little  feet  stumbled 
along,  and  in  a  wild  rush,  with  lusty  shouts,  the  boy 
staggered  into  his  father's  arms.     It  was  the  spectacle 
of  that  moment  when  the  human  race  left  the  quadrupeds 
by  standing  erect.     And  Kirby  was  thrilled  almost  to 
tears;    for  an  instant  he  divined  the  wonder  of  human 
life,  and  his  kingdom  vanished  in  the  white  light  of  hu 
manity.     And  he  only  wished,  with  his  heart  and  soul, 
that  this  boy  might  grow  to  be  a  splendid  man,  a  wise 
man,  a  good  man;  and  for  a  moment  he  was  stung  by  a 
sense  of  his  own  responsibility  to  the  people,  his  sacred 
trust. 

But  he  went  to  breakfast  and  read  the  papers.    Here 

414 


THE    SKYSCRAPER 

was  news  of  a  steel  strike  in  Germany.  Excellent  that! 
The  exports  for  a  while  would  be  doubled.  He  took  out 
pad  and  pencil  and  began  to  figure.  He  entered  his  au 
tomobile.  The  chauffeur  leaned  in : 

"To  the  new  building?" 

"Yes." 

The  car  shot  the  length  of  the  brilliant  city.  The 
morning  was  lusty  and  blue;  the  tides  of  humanity  were 
still  racing  workward;  activity,  joy,  health  were  in  the 
sparkling  air.  Down  Broadway  the  automobile  sped,  held 
up  here  and  there  at  a  crossing,  winding  in  and  out  among 
the  trucks  and  cars,  blowing  its  horn,  speeding  deep  into 
the  heart  of  the  city.  And  then  it  stopped;  the  chauffeur 
opened  the  door,  and  Kirby  stepped  out.  People  jostled 
about  him;  Broadway  up  and  down  was  in  cool  shadow,  a 
mighty  river-roaring  canon.  He  looked  up.  He  saw  the 
rise  of  the  Watts  Building  up  and  up  till  it  broke  through 
the  skyline  and  held  the  heavens  alone  with  its  white, 
fluttering  flag.  He  passed  with  curious  excitement 
through  the  arched  entrance.  The  marble  arcade  was 
golden-globed,  and  on  the  left  were  brilliant  shops  and 
on  the  right  the  bronze  doors  of  the  elevators.  He  could 
smell  the  mortar,  the  paint,  the  fresh  dust;  workmen  in 
overalls  still  went  to  and  fro;  the  elevator-starter,  in  his 
bright  uniform,  bowed  to  him.  He  entered  an  "express" 
elevator,  the  signal-lamp  glowed  red,  the  doors  shut  easily 
by  compressed  air,  and  the  steel  car  mounted  the  shaft 
like  a  rising  eagle,  noiseless,  swift,  resistless,  with  the 
quiver  of  pinions.  Up  and  up  it  went  for  a  whole  minute. 
Then  it  stopped,  doors  opened,  and  he  stepped  out  on  the 
top  floor.  Already  the  clerks  were  moving  in,  a  bright 
bustle  of  vanmen,  of  disarranged  furniture;  the  telephone- 
girl  at  the  switchboard  smiled  on  him.  He  glanced 
swiftly,  then  climbed  the  circular  stairway  to  the  tower. 
Yes,  he  was  passing  above  even  these.  Brilliant  light 
flooded  the  round  room;  on  the  green  stone  floor  was  a 
rich  rug;  the  large  desk  stood  in  the  center.  And  there 


THE    OLYMPIAN 

he  stood,  with  sharp,  gray  eyes,  graying  hair  on  the 
powerful  head,  massive  jaw,  a  bulky  creature  at  the  city's 
top,  looking  out.  He  was  utterly  alone  in  the  skies. 

Below  him  rose  the  skyscrapers,  giving  slanting  glimpses 
of  deep  streets  busy  with  tiny  black  people  and  darting 
traffic,  and  from  their  tops  curled  white  smoke  in  the 
boundless  swim  of  sunlight.  He  saw  the  waters  that 
circle  the  city  like  a  hugging  arm  of  the  sea,  and  on  the 
level  stretches  harbor-craft  and  ocean-liners.  He  saw  the 
bridges  suspended  between  Long  Island  and  Manhattan, 
Brooklyn  beyond;  he  saw  the  Jersey  heights  and  inlets 
swarming  with  houses  and  smokes;  and  he  saw  north  the 
sweep  of  New  York  to  the  gleaming  Bronx,  homes  and  fac 
tories,  schools  and  churches.  All  the  mighty  metropolis 
stretched  like  a  map  below  him,  crowded  to  the  circling 
horizon  with  millions  of  human  beings. 

And  he  remembered  the  day  he  had  come  to  this  city 
and  stood  in  the  deserted  canons,  an  atom.  And  all  at 
once  he  exulted  in  the  miracle  that  had  lifted  him  to  the 
topmost  tower,  with  all  the  city  under  him.  He  was 
dominating;  he  saw  his  empire  starting  below,  a  little 
sea-fragment  of  the  Western  Hemisphere.  He  had  been 
merely  a  poor  American  boy  in  an  obscure  town;  now  he 
dominated:  now  on  his  actions  and  his  thoughts  hung 
panics  that  might  send  a  swift  ruin  on  the  land,  hung 
enterprises  that  might  lift  it  to  higher  levels  of  happiness 
and  health.  His  words  went  forth  like  merciful  or  devas 
tating  armies.  He  could  overthrow  in  bloodless  battle 
like  Napoleon. 

He  was  not  awed  this  morning  before  this  power  of  his; 
the  terrific  burden  at  this  moment  did  not  trouble  him; 
he  merely  exulted.  And  he  remembered  the  process  that 
had  brought  him  here,  and  understood  what  it  implied. 
First  he  had  been  among  the  multitude  of  drudges,  then  he 
had  risen  into  the  skyrocket  class,  the  adventurers  trying 
to  break  to  the  top  and  ever  in  danger  of  falling  back, 
and  finally  he  had  risen  to  the  Olympians. 

416 


And  he  began  to  understand  what  had  brought  about 
this  three-layered  civilization.  It  was  Science  tearing  off 
the  crust  of  earth  and  releasing  the  powers  and  riches  of 
Nature.  Busily  the  race  seized  on  these,  a  chaos  of  rough 
enterprise — mines,  manufactories,  laboratories,  exchanges. 
And  in  the  swift  trade  that  followed  three  mighty  gods 
began  to  roughly  organize  the  chaos— Steam,  Electricity, 
Steel.  The  railroad  came,  the  post,  the  mill  and  farm 
machinery,  the  typewriter,  the  telegraph,  the  telephone, 
the  automobile.  And  all  these  were  like  nerves  and  blood 
vessels  laid  out  through  the  chaos  till  it  began  to  coalesce, 
the  parts  aware  of  each  other,  the  Earth  gradually  shaping 
into  one  body. 

Geniuses  had  risen  from  the  people  and  accelerated  the 
process,  cut  out  waste,  combined  industries,  until  the 
mighty  Trusts  emerged,  and  the  new  rulers,  the  Trust 
Magnates.  The  power  of  kings  had  crumbled  before  these 
new  dynasts:  theirs  was  a  military  power  based  on  applied 
force;  the  new  power  was  the  power  over  the  necessities 
of  life  based  on  inherent  force.  Hence,  the  new  dynasts 
had  a  power  transcending  that  of  any  previous  race  of  rulers. 

And  Kirby  had  become  one  of  these  and  exulted.  It 
seemed  right  that  he  should  be  so,  it  seemed  democratic. 
It  seemed  right  that  in  a  democracy  the  men  of  genius 
should  break  to  the  top  and  manipulate  the  power. 
Some  one  had  to  manipulate  it;  heads  were  needed; 
who  could  do  it  better  than  those  who  had  shown 
the  native  ability  to  succeed? 

It  was,  he  knew,  unlike  a  king's  power;  it  could  not  be 
passed  on  to  the  son  unless  the  son  had  the  genius  of  the 
father;  lacking  that,  a  great  fortune  swiftly  broke  up  and 
passed  to  new  hands. 

And  so  he  felt  righteously  crowned.  And  he  throbbed 
with  pride  to  think  that  he  belonged  to  a  great  country 
that  could  automatically  hand  its  geniuses  to  the  top. 
Out  of  the  millions  Kirby  had  emerged,  and  now,  at  last, 
he  dominated. 

417 


THE   OLYMPIAN 

It  was  a  dramatic  moment.  This  building  was  a  throne; 
this  hour  his  coronation.  And  he  did  not  doubt  that  his 
power  was  as  tough  and  durable  as  the  steel  sinews,  the 
stone-flesh  of  this  mighty  skyscraper.  He  was  a  sky 
scraper  himself,  risen  in  the  heavens  of  America.  What 
agitators,  what  popular  discontent,  could  shake  this 
dynasty  of  Steel? 


THE   END 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


SITED  IN  U.S. 


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